Crossroads
by Trixter82
Summary: Entire life stories can be altered by the roll of a dice. Due to a twist of fate Marian never arrives in the Holy Land. This is ep213 the way it really happened, and the many events that followed. Canon pairings.
1. Prelude: Roll the Dice

**This story is an attempt for me to get closure. I hated the ending of S2 so I have made my own version of the events the matters that follow. **

**Due to a twist of fate Marian never arrived in the Holy Land. She is lost in the sea, shipwrecked and assumed dead. Apart from that detail the events in the HL are much the same. **

**Djaq and Will are in the HL, but reality turns out to be quite different than they expected and Will finds it hard to adapt. **

**Robin, Much, LJ and Allan return to England with the belief that Marian is dead. Back on English soil the gang pulls in different directions and there is a new tension in the gang. Old enemies and new ones puts everyones lives in jeopardy.**

**Marian is left to find her way back to England on her own but soon finds out that the road is filled with detours. **

**Meanwhile King Richard starts the journey home but ends up facing the consequences of his own mistakes on the way.**

**Expect Luke Scarlett and the German count to make an appearance, as well as a rich gallery of my very own OC:s. The pairings will be canon, R/M and W/D (even though I'm not very fond of W/D and I can't promise that everything ends good between them). I toy a bit with historical fats in this fic, but I'll bend the facts to fit my story rather than bend my story to fit the facts. ;) **

**Will the king find his way home? Will Robin and Marian be reunited? Will Will adapt to the new life in the Holy Land? Is evil always evil? Is good always good?**

**This is the prelude, plz comment.**

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**Prelude: Roll the Dice**

**Famagusta 1192.**

It is known to mankind and often acknowledged that fate is a fickle thing. Entire life stories can be altered by the roll of a dice.

It struck Guy of Gisbourne that the town of Famagusta was nothing like he remembered it. The few years that had passed since he last changed ship in this harbour on Northern Cyprus seemed to have brought on a certain air of refinement to the sheltered fishing village. There were still tanned fishermen working bare breasted on the shore, still fishers' wives hanging nets to dry between the simple lodgings, and the place still reeked of fish, rotting seaweed and the brisk winds were still salt and dry under the merciless sun. The dark-haired fishing people spoke rapidly in a foreign tongue, their skin tough and creased like newly washed linen with deep furrows making their features harsh and sharp. Guy hadn't liked these people on his first visit, he found their glares hostile and unsettling and the simplicity of their manners seemed barbaric even compared to peasants. Yet on this visit the fishing village was changing, and the direction in which he saw it alter left him feeling slightly less out of place. There were merchants setting up permanent lodgings between the huts, random outbursts of French or German cut through the streets and lighted it up with colourful dots of European fashions that were rich compared to the coarse clothes of the fishing men. If this were to continue then Famagusta would turn into a vivid Christian town, huddled together around the animated harbour that lay like a magnetic focus point to all activity in the region.

"Famagusta," Vaysey exclaimed and threw out his arms as if he tried to envelop the world. It was no loving embrace, rather one that dictated ownership, and he inhaled deeply. "Ah, feel that Gizzy? The brisk, salty air. I think we shall eat fish today, hm?"

Guy wrinkled his nose and tried not take in too much of the sea breeze. Fish. Again. He did not like fish, hated the taste and smell, and the tiny little bones that scratched your throat as you swallowed. The sickening unavoidable sea-flavour seemed glued to the inside of his mouth, and the salty wind whipped his skin and made his hair dry and threadbare like late summer grass. The winds came in violent thrusts on this day yet didn't give any coolness, throwing up dancing waves topped with wild, surging foam. That was another thing with that damned sea. It rocked and rocked until you felt so sick you could swear your intestines were coming out of your mouth, and even when you reached shore the ground kept rocking beneath you. The sun was scorching Guy's face, the heat cruel and acrid and made him sweat under the suffocating black leather, and his stomach was still in an uproar from the boat ride.

"The wind seems to be rising, my lord," he pointed out as he followed Vaysey along the harbour. The sheriff whistled joyfully as he examined the boxes of fish and the boats secured with thick hemp ropes, finally stopping by a sturdy vessel.

"Not afraid of some measly waves are you Gizzy? Hm?" he asked with a cocked eye brow. "This is the boat that will carry us the last bit of the journey. I have made arrangements with the owner. Do you like her Giz, hm? The alluring 'Sibylla'."

Guy gave the boat a sceptical look. It was made for a crew of four or five men and from the look of it the vessel had seen better days. "Sir, it may be wiser to wait until tomorrow?" he suggested. "We can continue on the St. Joseph, surely it is safer."

"Ah, but that will cost us a day."

"We can afford a day."

"Can we? Hm?" Vaysey examined the boat and gave the wood a little knock as if the sound of the hull was all you needed to evaluate a vessel's floatability. It sounded alarmingly hollow and rotten.

"I must insist on this, sir," Guy insisted with a growing feeling of distress. A night on land, a nice bed that stayed in one place - he would even sleep in a stable with the horses rather than sail this boat over a storming ocean! "One day is not worth our lives!"

Vaysey took another look at the vessel and seemed to muse over this conundrum. The boat, so lovingly named 'Sibylla', was no beauty among boats and her crew was no pride among crews. It was a desperate drunken captain willing to carry a boat through a storm, and Vaysey was still slightly uncertain as to weather the day they saved was worth the silver he had to pay for it. There was a rustling of iron and people stepping on the rickety docks, and the two men turned around. "Ah," The Sheriff said. "Our luggage has arrived. Clothes, food—woman." He gave Lady Marian a grin full of crocked, yellow teeth. "Why don't we let lady Marian decide, hm? Giz?"

There was a grunting from Gisbourne and he turned away from the shackled Marian with a slightly uneasy look on his face.

"Let me decide what?" Marian questioned, her voice hostile and irritated. "Knowing you it is a choice between bad and worse if you leave it to a woman."

"Come now, Lady M. I would hardly consider you a woman. Leper perhaps," Vaysey grinned. "So, does the leper think we should travel tonight, with this fine boat, or should we wait a day?"

Marian snorted and looked at the pathetic vessel. "Well if you wait we will waste at least a day but if we take this pile of debris we might never reach out goal at all. Why don't you roll a dice Sheriff?"

"A dice!" Vaysey exclaimed. "Oh I like how you think. A dice, Gisbourne, let chance decide— Well I do not have a dice, but a this will do I think—" He rummaged through his pockets until he found a thick silver coin. On one side there was a head in profile, a big crooked nose and a weak chin, and on the other side a sailing boat. "Now I will flip this, and if it lands with the head up, then we remain here tonight. He looks a bit like Gizzy, don't you think?"

Gisbourne glanced at the picture on the coin that Vaysey held out to Marian, and restrained a sigh. It was some solace to him that the shackled noble woman snorted and looked away, lacking amusement over the insult, but Guy didn't want her pity. It was a poor substitute to love and in this grim setting there was no doubt in Gisbourne's mind. Weather she still held a torch for Robin Hood or not she had never loved Guy of Gisbourne, never returned his affection or mirrored his intentions. The insight made him feel sick, the full range of her betrayal gave him vertigo and his heart plummeted at the realisation that he had been played like a puppet. There were tiny little strings all over his body and they all pulled him back and forth and up and down until he didn't know where he had his own head.

Vaysey threw the coin up into the air a couple of times and caught it again, saw the sun catch the shiny surface as it coiled like a spinning wheel. Then he nodded at Guy with an excited grin, threw it high up into the air and caught it on the back of his hand with the other palm pinning it down. Slowly he lifted the upper hand with the thick, short fingers moving like spider legs and his mouth formed into an 'o' in mocked enthusiasm.

"Oh," he breathed and grinned at the little audience that studied him with different shades of disdain. "Well, we have a winner. It looks like we take the boat this evening. A round of applauds for the alluring 'Sibylla', I'm sure she will be as pleased as any leper to not spend her night alone. Now, now, Gizzy. Don't be like that. You can't win every time, hm?" The Sheriff grinned and inhaled the salty air, tapping Guy's cheek before he clasped his hands and turned to the boxes of fish. "Now, what will we have for supper—fish, fish or fish? Or squid perhaps!"

And thus, not with a roll of a dice but with the flip of a coin, lives were plunged into a new direction. Because the coin showed a picture of a boat and not the silhouette of a man, Lady Marian would never reach the Holy Land and incidentally Sir Guy would never plunge his sword into her belly causing her premature death. As it was fate had something completely different in store for group of Englishmen casting one last glance at the growing village of Famagusta. The wind kept on rising as 'Sibylla' left the docks, and Sir Guy was already starting to feel sick from the horrible rocking as the creaking vessel was tossed from side to side by the growing waves.


	2. Chapter 1: The Tempest

**Well my darlings, I bring you a rather dramatic first chapter. It was going to be longer but Robs will have to wait until ch 2. ;)**

**Comments are, as always LOVE.**

**Lana, Acdecnerd and Mira-and-Allan, thanx for commenting.  
Truchita: Actually since I started fangirling Robin Hood mos of my mates in the world of fandom has turned out to be older than me, to my great surprise. So I don't feel quite so old any longer :lol:. Ep2.13 is still like a dagger on my chest as well, which is why I have decided to write this fic. I'm eternally impressed if you manage to get Through the Vixen and The Watchman, it's sooo long lol Thanx for commenting!  
**

**Love,  
Trix**

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**Chapter 1: The Tempest**

_-In which a certain ring survives many perilous events_

The engagement ring was still tucked in snugly between Marian's breasts when 'Sibylla' left the relative safety of Famagusta behind. Marian had found a certain amount of comfort in the way the ragged edges scratched her skin, a reminder that she was not alone even though the life she led was surrounded by hostility. But when the boat started rocking her dulled mind and the ring pressed to her chest, the heart that beat against the cold metal didn't find any comfort. Her inner landscape lay barren and deserted.

Allan wasn't much of a life insurance. At best he might give her the benefit of doubt, the faintest shadow of a hope that Robin could beat the odds once again. But her hope was caged and trapped by logic, flapped like a fish on dry land in a futile attempt to breathe air. If Robin was dead then she would keep fighting. She would keep fighting like she had done when he abandoned her for the Holy Land, fight for the lives of other people when her own existence meant nothing to her. But in this moment she was in no position to fight. The sheriff had put her in the hold, removed her shackles and closed the hatch above her. She was a piece of luggage, a bird with its head in a cap to blind it, the remnants of an enemy rendered harmless.

The hold smelled strongly of salt, rotten wood and horses, a dark crowded space that was damp and hot like a laundry room. Vaysey's terrified stallion was agitated and panicking where it stood in a damp mixture of hay and its own manure. It was madness to take animals on a journey over a stormy sea, horses like this were brave in war but in this setting they became terrified beyond sanity. Marian made her way over to the gray stallion, put her arms around the muscular neck and pressed her head to his cheek. Fear surged through the animal, a roaring terror making him neigh and toss the long head from side to side in a desperate attempt to escape this madness, and she hushed and rubbed him in an attempt to give some comfort.

The violence of the cruel sea made the boat move uncontrollably, huge waves were thrust into the hull plunging the vessel in the opposite direction, throwing it up or tossing it down like a cat playing with its prey. For moments there seemed to be nothing but air around Marian, a sort of chaotic hovering where all attempts to find balance were ultimately vain. Another wave took the vessel and moved in an arch that seemed almost soft until the hull hit the water surface and the stem dipped down in a forceful blow, making the foaming water roll over it. The movement caused the horse tumble down, the leg bent and cracked like a twig, and Marian fell down so hard that it felt like she had been thrown by a sling. The fall stole the air from her lungs, she tried to hold on to the ground as the world kept falling and rising around her in a way that made her feel dizzy and nauseous. She moaned and turned to the horse, put her arms around the shocked animal that tried to rise in vain, and watched the snapped leg.

"Uh-- uh, Oh God," she groaned and suppressed the queasiness. "Hush, calm down, let me look. Schh--" There was another huge wave and the boat creaked and squeaked alarmingly under the pressure. Marian was wet down to her undergarments, her hair hung in tangled, salty stands and the cloth of her clothes clung to her body and made it difficult to move. She put a hand on the horse's leg and saw that it was broken into three pieces, rendering it useless in a way that was as much a death penalty as a cracked neck would have been. The rest of the animal's life would be nothing but pain, a prolonged agony that would end as soon as they reached shore, and she gave out a dejected sigh. "Will you leave me too?" she snorted bitterly, and swallowed the sickness that came in waves mirroring the sea's movements. "In my life will there be nothing but loss? Schh--" she patted the horse, rubbing him behind the big, tense ear. "Knighton," she explained to the frightened animal as she searched for some sharp object. "My father—My Robin, my love. All lost. And now you. My companion on this journey. Hush, do not be afraid--" Marian lay down by the animal, put an arm around it and tried to find comfort in the warm, trembling body. The only decent thing to do was to put the horse to death but she failed to find any knives or heavy objects, and there was a part of her that wished to keep the stallion alive. She could not be sure that Robin was gone. She could not be sure--

She bit down on her lip and let her mind wander, left her body lying sick and dull in the hold by the dying horse while her thoughts searched for something familiar in this insubstantial existence. Yet the nagging feeling of having lost everything persisted, the world felt empty and hollow and she got a sensation of being completely alone. Any attempts to reach out left her fumbling in the dark, there were no comforting arms to catch her, no image of a cheeky smile to tell her everything would work out. Nothing but the plagued realisation that the smile she craved so much may be eternally quenched, the arms she longed to feel might never cradle her again. That 'never' was a desperate, aching scream, yet an absence that left her deadly calm and neutralized because it stripped the world of all its meaning.

The horse had stopped struggling and lay trembling in front of his own demise. Marian pulled the ring out from the hiding place and slipped it on to her finger, felt a shudder run down her spine as she recalled a better time when Robin gave it to her. The ghost of his lips against her hand cut her like a knife, all the love and hope for the future that they had shared back then. Marian let her fingers graze the horse's mane and tried not to slide over the fiercely rocking floor as it tilted and nearly flipped over. She folded her hands to pray, but realised that she needed them to keep herself relatively steady, and swallowed another wave of nausea.

"God," she moaned and wondered absently when she stopped wearing her mother's cross. Perhaps that angered God - that her faith in him faded when he first stole Robin from her. "I will not—not be so bold as to ask you to spare me," she continued with some effort. "Only to let me share my watery grave with the men that took me here—" the boat creaked as it was plunged down to the water surface again and her stomach flipped. "Forgive—my sins. Lies. Theft. Lies—Lust. If lust can be a sin when love is not—" She shut her eyes when the boat rose again, lifted up by a giant wave that would have it fall down soon enough. This time the hull cracked – foaming salt water started leaking into the hold and the boat failed to straighten up. She grabbed on to the horse's mane and pulled herself up, crawling towards the hatch as the boat kept tossing from side to side. Her body worked on instinct now, her mind dulled by the nausea and lack of balance and imbedded in a layer of suffocating grief, yet she was somehow not ready to give up. The hatch was thrown open before she reached it and she gazed up at Guy who stretched down a desperate hand to her.

"Marian!" His yell became more of a mime - his lips moving although the words got lost in the raging storm. His face looked painted in horror, deadly pale under the wet hair as he pressed his chest to the floor while he reached for her. As his hand closed around hers he cradled it with a despair that was genuine, held on to her as if she was a jewel, his most precious possession that he couldn't afford to loose. Somewhere inside Marian a voice called out, a battle shriek that begged for her to take up arms once again. She would keep on fighting and this was her last weapon. His love for her, how she had cursed it time and again, cursed it and used it until she despised her own heart for being so sly and treacherous. Now she didn't have a dagger in her hair, no sword hung from her belt yet she was sharper than ever before. In this new world there was no Robin to lure her from the war with his promises of love and companionship. She had nothing to loose and thus everything to sacrifice. How much of Guy of Gisbourne was hers? How much of him was greed and how strong was his devotion to his love? If he would give her his loyalty then she would let him hold this jewel of his forever. Once he realised that his price was damaged beyond repair it would be too late to change his mind. Her 'yes' could win the war.

The entire ship was titled now, one side already below the waterline and the mast cracked by the power of the storm. Huge foaming waves climbed up and retracted again, beating the ship like a sledgehammer, and Guy tugged her up until she had her stomach pressed against the edge of the opening. At first there was relief in his eyes, but then something changed. His body grew tense and his features puzzled as he tugged her hand closer, wiggling the ring of her finger. Marian watched with a crushing feeling of defeat as that one simple ring finally disarmed her, his bewilderment turned into disappointment and pain before her eyes.

"Guy—" she pleaded, unsure of weather her words reached him through the storm. "Guy—it is just a ring. Guy. Please!" He looked at her, his face distorted in disdain and he let go of her hand as if she burned him. "Guy—Please—Please!"

She could hear her voice begging, yet in the core of her barren soul she didn't know why she was pleading so. Perhaps it was because this war was the last remnants of Robin - all she had left of everything that they shared was the battles and common goals. Her body lay pressed against the wet wood, water so salt that it made her eyes hurt washed over her and she registered with a sort of wry smile that Guy's leather would be destroyed. Then the sheriff came, shouted Gisbourne's name and tugged him away.

"Gisbourne! Never return for the luggage in case of emergency!" he yelled and gave Marian a push that caused her to fall back into the hold.

---

The ring was still clutched tightly in Guy's hand when he followed the sheriff to the small boat that would carry them to safety. In the distance a faint light emanated from a bigger vessel, sturdier, one that could survive a storm like this. His mind was blank and he pushed the object in his hand so hard that the sharp edges almost cut his skin. He hated the sea. Hated the waves. Hated the salt. Hated the way it devoured everything. This was not an element made for men, you could not breathe water and it only carried you as long as it felt like carrying you. It wasn't completely solid yet it could convey boats, and the depths he knew stretched out beneath him gave him a feeling of vertigo.

The ring was crushed inside Guy's fist as he watched 'Sibylla' disappear in the waves. They stretched for the boat greedily, tugging and pulling the vessel into debris - shattered pieces that sunk of remained afloat like the splinters of his shredded heart.

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**NEXT CHAPTER: The ring finds it's way into the desert where we meet Robin Hoode all tied up and nowhere to go. **

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	3. Chapter 2: The Deserted

**So, this is chapter 2. There is quite a lot of angst in this, but remember that Marian survives ;) **

** I am NOT killing Marian. Don't worry. :-)**

**Thanx a lot for the comments!!! I really need comments on this fic. :lol: **

**Thanx to Jas for doing a beta on this chapter and Quince for giving me her opinions, always useful even though I didn't always agree. :- **

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Chapter 2: The deserted

_- In which there is sand, more sand and sand on top of the sand that has already been mentioned._

He would get blisters on his ears again. The thought hit Much out of the blue, rather literary, since the world he found himself in was undoubtedly and quite inescapably blue. A huge, wide eternally blue heaven meeting the yellow sand in a horizon that seemed to move – ripple like a water surface with the sand mirroring the sky in torn sea-like illusions. He could feel the blistering white sun burning his exposed ears, felt it sting and smart and wished he had remembered to cover them up. Not that it would actually matter. They were tied up in the middle of the desert and would die anyway, perish like criminals humiliated and forgotten. Much liked to think that he was a _positive realist_, but there was almost no doubt that they were facing their final demise this time. How bitter that it would happen in the Holy Land! When they thought that they had finally escaped this hell once and for all, so relieved to leave it that Robin's wound had seemed like a blessing in disguise.

The memories of times past came in confused shreds to Much, marching through his head in a rapid pace that left him bewildered and a bit overwhelmed that it was all about to come to an end. Once upon a time the path to the Holy Land was a fairytale trail - the sand seemed golden though it blinded you when the sun stood high above your head. There had been so much hope for the future, the memory of their home still vivid enough to seem dull and ordinary and Robin's longing for Marian still romantic and painless. It was before the world fell and they followed it down. Once it had seemed like a harmless nuisance that Much's ears had been burned, roasted by the merciless sun in a way that made him think they could probably be dipped in garlic sauce and eaten. Once he moaned and Robin laughed.

Now Much moaned and Robin stared at the horizon. Much would have preferred laughter, even a distorted bitter smile would have been better than this. He would have preferred tears or anger as well. Anything that meant a reaction was infinitely superior to the distant gaze into whatever hallucinations Robin's fading mind painted him. His back was a wall and every word Much spoke, every desperate loving word he needed to get out of his system in his final moments, simply bounced right off and slid into the nothingness of the desert.

The riders looked like ghost-images first. Blurry, rippling shapes where the desert met the infinite blue, not solid enough to be real. In the desert memories could walk by your side like apparitions, dreams sometimes took on substance that bordered to insanity, and Much knew better than to believe his eyes or his ears or even his sense of smell. But then came Robin's words – a puzzled 'Marian' whispered to the hallucinations – and even though you couldn't trust your senses illusions were never shared. If he saw them as well then perhaps they were actually there, and one by one the realisation dawned on the outlaws. A choir of broken, dry yells split the burning desert air as they shouted at their salvation, everyone but Robin whose whispered longing for Marian faded when the shapes became clearer. It wasn't her. And then all hope shattered into a million grains of sand.

"The Sheriff—" Allan's words mercilessly broke the illusion.

"There is no God," Much heard himself add, dejected and bitter. It seemed like the world did it's best to scorn them, sending them an illusive hope in the shape of their worst enemy. Then a thought made its way into his mind, a little voice telling him that there was something else that didn't make any sense. "If that is the sheriff and Guy then where is Marian?!" he exclaimed. "Shouldn't she be with them?"

"Perhaps she escaped?" Will suggested as the men came closer. It was three of them. The sheriff and Guy rode first and by their side a man clothed in innocent white – a crusader that Much recognised with a twinge of despair. He had shared meals with this man and now the sheriff had bought him?! Were the hearts of men that fickle and weak?

"See that's the trouble with foreign travel," The sheriff greeted them cheerfully. "Hm? You run into all the same people that you see at home!" He laughed and clasped his hands, rubbing them together as if priding himself with a work well done. "Oh, I was planning on bringing you a present but we seem to have dropped it at sea. We lost our horses as well- rather regrettable that. Anyway, Gisbourne—" the sheriff gestured at his sergeant who sat perched up on a camel, his face stern and a bit nauseous from the animal's soft rocking motions. "—wanted to visit you while we were here. Didn't you Gizzy? Hm? There, there don't be shy. Say your last farewells, we haven't got all day."

Guy sighed and slid ungracefully down from the animal, moving up to Robin who lifted his head to the man who seemed misplaced and odd in the borrowed Saracen clothes. He had seen him like that before, during the attempted assassination of the king, yet there was very little rage in Robin's demeanour. He seemed detached and uninterested, his mind trapped somewhere far away from this last degrading meeting with the man who was his nemesis.

"Hood," Guy sneered.

"Guy," Robin responded in a calm voice. "Always a pleasure. Forgive me if I don't shake your hand, I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

A wry smile grazed Guy's lips, pulled them into a crooked grin. "You lost, Hood," he said. "Your precious king did our bidding in the end."

Robin snorted and shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side as if he was searching for something in the empty desert. "No," he mumbled. "There will always be people fighting for me."

"You are not referring to your wench are you?" Guy scoffed. "I may have news for you there."

The comment made Robin twitch, his body tensed and he stared at Guy as his attention suddenly became focused. "What news?" he asked in an edgy voice.

"I said you lost," Guy continued with a smile still plastered to his lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes, seemed oddly sad and shallow as if this was a bitter victory shadowed by a much larger defeat. "In the end you lost Marian as well."

"Marian!" Much exclaimed in the shock that followed. "What have you done to her?!"

"I haven't done anything," Guy sneered. "She could have been safe now had she only made wiser choices. You used her for your purposes and now she is dead."

"Dead!" Robin would have turned to stare at Much if he had been able to twist his head right around, but as it was he simply gave his neck a faint twitch in his friend's direction. "How?!" Much continued. "I mean—She is—You killed her! Didn't you? Oh God—There may be no God but there is a devil! Master—Robin—Robin?"

"She went down with the ship!" Guy snapped. "The sea took her, the sea and misguided loyalties."

There was a tense silence as Robin and Guy started at each other, Guy still smiling and Robin with an expression of puzzled disbelief. It seemed so incomprehensible, that the sea would take what no sword or snare managed to touch, that nature stole a life so constantly threatened by war and the cruelty of mankind. Allan's betrayal didn't take her, nor Guy's dagger or the sheriff's gallows. But the sea. The sea that cared so little for the fate of humanity, that didn't listen to pleads and never gave in to reason or logic. There were stories about fishermen's widows that stood day after day, gazing out at the mysterious ocean that stole their husbands, the huge element that nurtured them with its riches yet could destroy everything in a whim. Now the desert slowly sucked the last life out of Robin Hood, but it was the sea that stole his heart, took his spirit and carried it off into the depths. "I do not believe you," he breathed, not so much because he doubted Guy's statement as because he just couldn't live with it and much less die with the knowledge. She was the one that had to live. She couldn't be dead! How could she be dead when he still felt her heart, still saw her face so clearly before him, still heard her voice?!

"Believe it or not, that is your choice. I thought you might like this back," Guy scoffed and took out an object from his pouch.

Robin shifted his gaze to Guy's hand and stared at it. "No," he whispered. _No, no, no!!!_

"No?" Guy repeated, his face filled with a sour, tainted triumph. "I just leave it here then," he continued and dropped the ring into the sand. It sunk down where it fell, partly hidden by yellow grains of the desert, so that only half of the oval-shaped adornment showed. This was the tip of the iceberg. What didn't show was not merely the other half of the ring, but all the consequences of this fallen piece of jewellery, all the pain and agony that washed away the last of Robin's resistance. A light wind blew and buried his hope and dreams, his heart crushed and shattered in the sand until he didn't care to hold on. His head hung down, resting on his chest as if his neck failed to carry the weight of his grief, and he caved in to the heat and his looming death. May it come, may it take his sense away, may it bury him with that ring—

"Say it Hood," Guy jeered. "Admit that I have won." There was only silence from Robin, not a defiant lack of words but one that seemed oblivious of Guy's further existence. "Well," Guy continued with a crooked smile. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, well, hasn't this been nice and cosy, hm?" the sheriff interposed. "I'd love to stay and chat but we have a king to kill— Gizzy, kiss your boy goodbye and get over here."

Guy gave Robin a final victorious grin and turned his back on him, clumsily climbing up on the camel that rested with a dumb look in the long face. This wasn't much of a final stand for either of them, no dramatic fight to end their battles, instead it simply faded away like one of the desert's hallucinations. Guy and the sheriff and the fallen crusader became shapes in the horizon again, became blurred and shredded by the heat until only the outlaws remained. Much eyes rested warily on Robin's back, tried to talk to him even though every word made his tongue swell in his mouth until it felt like an alien object rather than a part of him.

"Master?" he said. "Robin? Are you there? I mean—are you awake? Robin? You're not dead yet are you?" But Robin wasn't dead. He still stood on his legs even though he resembled a scarecrow, a wooden structure serving as spine when he was nothing but a sack of hay and two horn buttons for eyes.

"Serve God," he said in a voice that was oddly detached and neutral, hollow this deprived of all sentiment. He was reciting a lesson as old as his memory, reached out for his father's voice from a time when life had been laid out before him like a rosary. "Serve the King. Protect your— protect your family. Protect you people. Serve God. Serve—"

"Master?"

"The King, protect your family—"

"Master! Robin!"

"And your people—"

"Robin you did protect them. You served the king well! And God. We did well, Robin. We did well."

Robin's neutral voice trailed off and his shoulders seemed to sink. The scorched skin on his neck arched up to the merciless sun, his arms spread out like the parody of a bird preparing its flight. His body was trapped end exposed, vulnerable in its helplessness as a hide stretched in a frame and put out to dry. Such a degrading way to die - prolonged, painful and vain in its futile hope of salvation. Robin's head dipped down and Much felt himself tense, his hands wanted to lift up the hood over his friend's head to give him some shelter, yet he was as trapped himself and the rope hugged tightly around his wrists. He would get blisters on his ears, yet he didn't know why that seemed so important.

"I did not," Robin's voice finally broke through, hushed and filled with regret. His words sounded hoarse and dry as if every syllable rasped and scratched his throat, tore through it as he forced himself to speak. "I failed—I failed everything. Marian—" The last word was hardly more than a whisper, and Much wasn't sure weather he had imagined it simply because it was the one thing everything in Robin's demeanour screamed out. The head that dipped down was pleading for Marian, the arched neck longed for her touch, the eyes that searched for the ring in the sand begged for her hand to carry it once more. But the ring lay deserted and alone and even the hallucinations failed him. "You were my family," he slurred more to himself than anything, "the lads—and Marian. Marian was everything. I'd rather put out the sun than never see her again."

"Not being funny but I wouldn't mind putting out the sun now," Allan moaned and got an accusing look from Much. "Wha? Just saying—"

"You will see her again," Much reassured Robin while bluntly ignoring Allan's usual mannerisms. "In heaven—it's not Locksley but—Well. Lord knows it will be soon enough."

"Not so sure I'm going to heaven—" Robin mumbled.

"What! Of course you are!"

"My bow has seen more blood than the sword of Herod." His voice had lost its presence again, because neutral and detached. "War took away more than it gave me Much," he slurred. His sentences were confused and hard to follow, and Much didn't quite know if he spoke to him or to a hallucination. "I thought we could be together when it was over, but it never ended—I'm sorry my love— I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry—"

The hushed apologies made Much confused at first, but then Robin's words got stuck on Marian, repeated her name like an unyielding echo. The sun took him fastest because he didn't care, stole the sanity from his ragged thoughts and stripped them naked. He had been reduced to a ghost, his mind boiled down until only the strongest thoughts persisted and pushed through the escalating dehydration. It was unbearable to hear, heartbreaking to watch. Much shut his eyes to the blinding sun and the shadow of his friend, who looked so vulnerable and out of place against the yellow sand. He should not be here. He looked better under a British oak with a cheeky grin and a bow in his hand.

"What a way to die," Allan whined in a bitter muttering. "I choose the wrong time to switch side didn't I? I bet Gizzy is feasting now—"

"Allan! Shut up!" Much exclaimed, annoyed with this man who seemed to expect some sort of medal for following his conscience. "We did the right thing," he continued in a tone that revealed a smidgen of doubt in his own words. "For the king and England."

"Oi look, the king put us 'ere in the first place didn't e'?!"

"So many sour faces!" a new voice interrupted Much's response, left him standing with his mouth half-open and his forehead furrowed. "You are not pleased to see me?"

Much's vision was blurry as the man dressed in crusader white dismounted and started to walk towards them, but from a distance it is the way a person moves that we recognise first. Carter. _Carter!_ Something in Much snapped, a wave of relief that made him cry even though there were no tears in his dehydrated body. Thus came salvation. He would live! Robin would live! The king would live if they saved him! Everyone would live!

"Carter!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I thought I didn't like you!"

"I know."

"Well—I do now—"

One by one their shackles snapped, their arms fell down from the traps that held them. The feeling of relief was so big, a lightness that made Much think he could lift both his feet off the ground and fly, had he any intention on doing so. His shoes sunk down into the sand and dizziness overcame him, made him swagger and reach for the water Carter had brought. Sweet wonderful water, sweet wonderful freedom! Much was a man of the moments, and however horrid the world had seemed only seconds ago this was a piece of heaven. He was still laughing to himself, laughing or crying or both perhaps, when he realised that he was the only one. The air was filled with unspoken words, no cheers rose to the sky as the outlaws gathered around Robin. Carter cut off the sovereign of Sherwood's ropes and he fell down as if it was the one thing holding him up, his legs folded and he collapsed in the sand. A sorrowful pile vaguely resembling a man, his trembling fingers dug through the soil, scratched and shuffled it until they closed around the ring. It had been buckled by Gisbourne's rough treatment, bent and distorted.

"Robin?" Carter asked puzzled and worried at the lack of enthusiasm. "What is the matter my friend?"

"Fast, give him water," Djaq ordered. "Robin, you need to drink."

There was no reaction from the man who sat so still in the sand. He stared at the ring as Much took the flask and poured the liquid over his head, let himself be fed when the water was pushed to his lips but made no effort to rise.

"Much," Carter insisted. "What has happened?"

"Marian," Much mumbled. "She is—"

"The ship sank. She is dead," Will filled in, and got a look of silent understanding from Carter. He could relate to death of someone close to you, knew how heavy the power of grief could be.

"We still need to save the king," Djaq pointed out in a rushed voice. "Robin, we have to save the king or everything will be in vain. This journey will be in vain. Marian's death—"

"My changing of loyalties," Allan interposed. "Not being funny but that will be in vain. Might as well do this, Robs. We're 'ere now."

The sun still scorched Much's ears, neck and scalp when Robin slowly lifted his face to the men that stood gathered around him. His eyes were void of all emotion as he stood up, the ring hidden inside his clenched hand as if it was the only thing that kept him from falling apart, his lifeline in a world gone mad. His knuckles were white from the force of his knitted fist, yet that was the only sign of any feelings. The dry eyes didn't cry, the dry lips didn't pull into a grimace, his forehead didn't furrow from the pain. Instead everything was terrifyingly blank and still, the mere absence of everything seemed to speak louder than any agonised cry could.

He nodded at them and put the ring in his pouch with a hand that trembled violently from exhaustion and dehydration - the swollen tongue dipped out to lick the lips moist but seemed to be clumsy and fumbling. Much wondered if his lips felt cracked as his did, if his mouth was filled with sticky mucus as his was, if his ears burned and stung as well. Then Robin opened his mouth to speak to his men, blinking at the bright sun as if he recently woke up.

"Let do this then," he said with a strained voice where every word sounded hoarse and heavy. For a very long time Robin Hood would be oblivious of the fact that Marian was in fact not dead at all, but washed ashore, and in that very moment opening her eyes to a curios circle of dark-eyed strangers.

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**NEXT: Marian is washed ashore on foreign soil.**


	4. Chapter 3: Staccato

**Hey here comes chapter 3. :) **

**lol, DeanParker, you can help Marian when she washed ashore if you are willing to be a juvenile young man who speaks Greek.  
BrightYellowPunk: Everyone interprets Guy differently. I'm not going to make him flat and all evil. He will have regret and stuff, angst. But he will still be Guy, and that means that he will be cruel at times, greedy and jealous. Still hot though ;)  
LoonyLover: Trust me I have had MUCH worse cliffies than that one in my fics. :lol: Reunion will have to wait for a while I'm afraid, but it will come and it will be fabulous when it does. ;)  
Zetta: I find Gisbourne interesting but difficult to write. I will have a part of chapter 4 in his POV though. :-**

**Thanx for all the comments! I didn't appreciate those I didn't answer too nay less, I just didn't find anything specific in them to answer to. Keep commenting, I love you all and trust me when I say that I listen to my readers. **

**Big HUG and THANX to Jas for doing a beta on this chapter. I needed it and it helped a lot.**

**Love,  
Trix  
**

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Chapter 3: Staccato

_-In which Marian is washed ashore and there would have been much rejoicing, had she only known how to get home and what awaited here there, which she didn't_

The three friends used to stalk the beach after every storm. From time to time it was a lucrative leisure, and it was always a good reason to lounge when you should be untangling fishing nets. They walked slowly, eyes firmly on the water's edge where random debris lay scattered from some unfortunate ship. Their conversation was rapid and they cut brutally into each other's sentences, words fighting for the upper hand in the manner of competitive youngsters everywhere. These men were bachelors, and thus practically marinated in the kind of thoughts that have occupied young, unmarried men since the dawn of time.

"What about Tola?" Stavros said in a rough variation of the local tongue and made an exaggerated gesture with his hands, implying that Tola was what a more modest person might call 'well endowed'.

"Nah, nah Tola is fine from the neck down but—"

"So? Put a bucket over her head!" Ragged laughers broke out and Stavros gave Dimitros a shuffle that caused him to tumble down. "Watch it! Aw look I got my shirt all wet. No! Mum is going to—" his words trailed off as he gave his friends a glance, and realised they didn't pay him any attention. "Hey—what is it? Stavros? Nikos?"

Dimitros stood up and followed their eyes, feeling his jaws fall open as his gaze landed on the strange object that lay sprawled by the water's edge. She was dressed in white, the thin cloth almost transparent by the water and twisted around her body. Sand sprinkled the pale skin and her dark hair lay in tangled strands around her head; her eyes shut but the round breast heaved with life still. They walked closer with the kind of respectful awe that they only normally paid in church, shocked into silence by finding such an object of beauty amid the debris. She appeared to the young men like something from the olden days; a nymph washed ashore or a muse who lost her poet.

"Nikos," Stavros ordered with a kind of natural authority that his years would polish into poise. "Run to the village. Tell them we have a survivor. Bring something to carry her on."

"Me!?" Nikos exclaimed disappointed and tore his eyes from the woman.

"Yes you! Go!" He stared at Nikos until the weaker man caved in and started to run with agile leaps toward the village; arms waving; head bobbing; breathing fast and excited. Stavros walked up to the body cautiously and bent down beside her.

"No, don't touch her, we better wait—" Dimitros pointed out nervously as Stavros solemnly tucked in a lock of hair behind the woman's ear.

"She don't look from around here," he responded. "She lives though. She's warm, not only sun-warm you know."

"Of course she lives, she's breathing! Don't touch her Stavo, you will break something."

Stavros sighed and backed away reluctantly. He didn't harbour any fears of hurting the woman but wasn't quite sure it would be proper to touch her. Her clothes were fine, silk and nice embroideries, and he wondered who she could be and why she was here. '_Prigkipissa_' he mumbled to himself. Princess.

The two young men guarded the woman in the sand gravely, captivated by their alluring find, as they waited for the villagers to turn up. They used to stalk the beach after every storm, but never before had they stumbled over a princess.

---------

Salt. The first sensation that returned to Marian was taste, and the world tasted unpleasantly like acrid salt. She inhaled sharply; a deep wheezing breath that made her cough; her body twitched; her lungs burned; her stomach ached from the spasms. At first reality was played before her in staccato, moments of presence followed by silence that made them seem only loosely connected. Fast snappy glimpses of a sky that was altogether too bright were accompanied by the sound of voices that she failed to understand. Her mind felt shredded and disorganised, she tried to call forth one memory but got another. As the uncontrollable coughs ceased to ripple through her body she let her eyes remain shut in order to take in the environment sense by sense.

The ground beneath her was soft and damp like wet sand and her clothes and hair seemed plastered against her body, hugging it tightly. As her breathing came back it occurred to her that the collar on her dress was pressing against her throat, so snugly it almost strangled her. She pulled her face into a scowl of discomfort and made a half-hearted attempt to pull the collar looser. How could her hand be this weak and trembling? How could every movement be accompanied by such burning pangs? She let her arm fall down with a damp thud and continued to investigate her surroundings. Her left foot was rinsed by lukewarm fluid that came and went in slow sucking movements. Salt. Water. Beach. She was on a beach. Why? She knew herself to be English yet this was far too hot for England; the sun had already dried her face and her salty lips hurt from the scorching heat that made them crack open in tiny scores. In spite of all the dampness in her lungs she failed to swallow and her mouth was filled with sand that crunched between her teeth. Why was she here? On a beach where she clearly did not belong! Memories of a travel flashed by but were disrupted by older reminiscences; every single thought seemed mixed into a tangled mess and every time she tried to pull a knot it simply tightened by her efforts. It reminded her of something, a memory that was bleak enough to be ancient history. A brown-haired girl that sat grumpily perched up on a stool, her face distorted into a grimace as a maid tried to sort out the curls. The sun painted faint squares on the rough wooden floor and the steamy air smelled of lavender.

'_Ouu it hurts it hurts! Stop it Sarah--- daaaddy! Aaah—It hurts it hurts it hurts!'_

'_Hush child, don't fuss! This is what you get for playing with young Robin. A lass like you—I aven't seen the likes of it! Ay, if you are wild like a boy then you need not fuss like a girl!'_

Robin?

Robin! The name seemed to stir something in her. Who was he? A childhood friend? No a man- it was snapshots of a man that flashed by. A man with a scruffy kind of magnetism, his smile teasing and coaxing her until she wanted to scream for him to come here; to hold her while she woke up; to untangle her thoughts one by one. The familiarity of him was something to hold on to, he became sharper around the edges, got a voice and a smell and a bow clenched in his slender hands. The mere thought of him soothed her, a longing strong enough to put some sort of ground beneath her stumbling steps into consciousness.

"Mmf 'obin," she murmured. "Robin—Robin—" It hurt to talk yet her words were hardly more than a whisper. She wished his voice would answer her, a kind 'Yes, my love' to reassure her that she was not alone. Yet instead of his comforting words she was met with a rapid torrent of a language that she didn't know. It was spoken by men so it must be words, but she would have a greater chance to make sense out of a bird's chirping.

_Birds_. For some reason birds were important. A carrier-pigeon; a hawk with menacing claws; an intrusive black crow; a twittering robin in a cage, breaking free from his shackles—Birds were involved with the row of events that had landed her here on a beach where she didn't belong.

Bold by the reminiscence of Robin she tried to force all memories at once but felt overwhelmed by the sheer mass of information. A storm. A journey. Names and faces that she had to somehow puzzle together. She drew another painful breath and moaned. It was way too complicated! For some reason she was on an unpleasant journey that had ended with a wrecked ship and a certain death that had eluded her through some miracle. She had a feeling of a looming disaster, hovering over her like a vulture, and she felt instinctively that the world she had lost was not a pretty one. Yet she still needed it back! She needed Robin to be here, yet there was a distinct feeling of loss accompanying him.

Why? _Did I loose you Robin?_ Why wasn't he here with her? She moaned and tried to call out his name again. This time the strange voices answered her by repeating her words with puzzled tones, as if they could hear her but not understand what she wanted.

"Robin?" the men said, and another word that recurred again and again; '_Prigkipissa'. _She did not know that word, didn't understand their tongue at all.

She made another attempt to open her eyes and found the world to be bright and blurry. Two men watched her warily from a distance, their appearances dark and rough, but with a concern and respect in their features that made her feel slightly more at ease.

"Do I—" she slurred and swallowed hard. Talking hurt; moving hurt; breathing hurt. Everything hurt! "Do I know you? Who—Who are you?" The men exchanged a look and answered her softly in their native tongue. No, these men were strangers. Or rather, _she _was a stranger; someone who had swept right into their life like the debris from a shattered ship. The sea had spat her out and discarded her on their beach, carried by the currents and the rubble from the wreck. What in this world had possessed her to hold on when it would have been so much easier to let go? She had splinters under her skin, her nails were broken and her fingers scratched so she must have clung to life with every inch of her self-preservation, far beyond her physical strength.

The sun filtered through Marian's eyelids and painted her darkness crimson when she shut them to the confusing reality. This was not her home. The beach was not her bed. She forced back the tears of despair and grasped the image of Robin because it was the only thing that soothed her. In her mind he caressed her tightly, held her cradled to his chest and hushed comforting against her hair to silence the demons that plagued her. She was so incredibly tired. Every limb on her body seemed to be burdened by weights and every movement was slow and lacked precision. It frustrated her to not be master over her own body and mind, the lack of control scared her senseless. She felt as if she sat perched up on a lanky bridge with the abyss gaping beneath her like a giant mouth ready to devour her, yet the darkness also had a certain seduction. To sleep; to end this pain; to rest and wake up to a better day. Exhaustion gripped around her again and lulled her back into a heavy slumber.

Like the waves of the ocean, moments of consciousness flushed over Marian during the time that passed followed by periods of oblivion. Was it hours? Days? Weeks even? It could be years for all she knew. The world changed between the moments of perception. Once she felt sure she moved, rocked softly from side to side while the disharmonious tapping of feet revealed to her she that was not alone. For a brief moment she half expected to find herself surrounded by trees, but instead her eyes opened up to a naked sky that left her bewildered and lost in the web of time. Again it faded from her, and the next time she came to her senses she was comfortably embedded in cool blankets and lulled by the soothing singing of a woman. Her dusky shape was hefty and she seemed to roll on her feet when she walked across the floor, but the singing sounded light and modest. The world switched on and off. Came night; came day; came dawn; came dusk. The snippets of reality gradually became less confused - it started to behave as she expected and the room in which she laid remained the same.

She would have found her life gradually becoming better if it wasn't for the fact that for every new step there was another sorrow to follow. She recalled her home that had been razed; her father that had been killed; the dangerous and morally dubious game that she had been forced to play. She remembered that the last she had heard of Robin, the man that she loved and now knew to be her betrothed, was that he had been captured in a barn and was likely to be dead. Likely. Not certain. She held on to that minor detail and reminded herself that she was likely to be dead as well. Yet she was not. She was resting in a soft bed, tended to by kind strangers that called her_P__rigkipissa _and sung for her in a foreign tongue. At times she woke up and there would be people gathered around her, gazing down with curious looks on their faces, and she remembered that as much as their world seemed like a mystery the real mystery here was her.

Even as her strength returned Marian found herself reluctant to rise from her bedding. It was her cocoon, a place where time did not sweep her off her feet and she didn't have to face the future. She had never been a lazy person, always up early in the morning because those hours had a certain freedom to them that the rest of the day lacked. Yet the reality which she woke up to now was one that weighed her down, and freedom seems watery pale to a person who has no security in her life. Marian would gladly have slumbered trough day after day, but she was a guest had no right to simply give in to sadness and be a burden, preying on the hospitality of kind strangers. The hefty matron of the house was a timid woman called Adonia, she spoke rarely but smiled and sung through the days, and Marian had come to care for her. Thus she found a shaded spot outside the house where she built herself a new cocoon, and obediently finished off whatever chore Adonia had laid upon her. The simple household labour made it easier to handle the grief that struck down on Marian with every new memory. The nice memories hurt because they were lost, and the painful ones hurt because they were painful. The people of the village continued to call her _P__rigkipissa_ even after she had taught them her name, but even though they were kind to her they made little effort to understand her. She was their melancholic mystery, a stranger that they didn't mind but didn't express any will do decipher. Thus she sat and prepared Adonia's vegetables with her skirt pulled up so that the sun warmed her pale ankles; getting used to the view of the dry, harsh landscape and the dusky people that inhabited it. She knew that they were Christian, but it was an eastern form of Christendom and Marian had guessed their language to be some local variation of Greek. No one spoke English. Or at least that was true until the day the merchant came.

'Merchant' was how he introduced himself, but it seemed like a humble term for someone who for Marian resembled an angel of mercy. She had not met him before because he was a traveller and did not live in the village, although he was greeted in such a way that is was obvious that he was no stranger. He was a short and corpulent man, hairy with big bushy eyebrows and a mouth that was constantly pulled into a smile under the thick moustache. People gathered around him and formed a motley retinue; a little tail of curious bystanders that raised at least half a head higher than him as he walked up to Marian.

"Vous parl Français? Oui?" he said, and Marian dropped the vegetable she was scrubbing into the bowl of water with a splash. For so long every syllable spoken to her had been a mystery that these familiar words took her completely by surprise. It was French! Bad French but French all the same and she spoke French quite elegantly.

"Oui," was all she managed to answer as her jaw dropped and her eyes stared wide open at the little man.

"Bien, bien!" he said with a wide grin. "Vous Français, oui?"

"Non—Non je suis né á Nottingham—L'Angleterre."

"England!" The man exclaimed. "Ah, you English woman, yes? Me, I am the merchant. I been far—around. Everywhere around. England I know. France I know. Very cold, yes?" He laughed loudly so that his big stomach wobbled. "Yes? Cold, but you—you think here very warm maybe. Not nice, hm?"

Marian swallowed hard as she tried to take in the mass of new information, and found herself repeating his words as a child learning to speak all over again.

"The merchant?" she said. "England? And you have been to France?"

"Ah, merchant yes, yes. Merchant Balthazar. You come here we go there. You know here?"

"Here?" she frowned and tried to understand what he was saying. "Oh, you mean do I know where I am? I'm not sure—"

"You know Constantinople? This Eastern Rome, very much south. You go more south there is Crusaders, many crusaders. You know crusaders?"

"Oh—" Marian tried to paint a map inside her head, saw the ragged coastlines of the Mediterranean counties stretch out before her. This was the Eastern Roman empire; if you went south there were crusader's countries. She must be north of Cyprus, on the mainland. It made sense that she would have been washed ashore there. "I understand," she breathed out, instantly feeling a pang in her neck as she did so. She had not realized how tense she had been. All this time of being lost, a stranger, and suddenly there was a man who spoke her tongue, a traveller that could help her get home! "I'm—my name is Marian," she continued, a bit stunned by the prospect of returning home. "This will sound presumptuous—" she stopped herself and smiled at his bewildered look "I mean it will sound like I am asking too much of you. But before I came here there was—I had things to do. I wonder—could you help me get back to Famagusta perhaps?"

"No, no, no boat will take woman like you," he rolled his eyes cheerfully as if he was letting her in on a secret. "They say woman back luck on sea. I say men bad luck on land, ey?" he winked at her and gave in to a roaring laughter, and Marian smiled politely, biting down the wave of disappointment. "But I will take you to other way. To crusaders' road."

Marian's heart jumped over a beat; suddenly dizzy at the prospect of returning to her home. English crusaders took the waterway to the Holy Land, but crusaders from Germany took a path through central Europe. That must be what he was referring to.

It was not a nice life that Marian had left behind. Her father and her home were lost. The king would probably be dead by now, since she failed to save him. Robin—well there was little chance that he lived still. But she had a life there, a role to play, something to make the rest of her existence on earth less pointless. People needed her, and if Robin was gone then that was truer than ever. Life here in this cocoon was not life. To them she was still the _Prigkipissa_on the beach, a melancholic castaway who lived her life through memories. It may be a romantic story for the people of this village, something exotic and a little bit unreal that were in their very midst; a sorrowful muse washed ashore from a saga of the ancient times. But in her heart she was still the woman who clung to the debris with every inch of her soul, who survived the storm even though her heart was broken and her spirit weak. She was not born to fade away. She was born to fight.

She cocked her head at the cheerful merchant called Balthazar who stood shadowing her where she sat outside Adonia's house. The entire village was standing around them, talking in hushed voices and she almost burst out laughing. People were the same everywhere; curious and gossiping amongst each other. She was their exotic protégé that they had taken in when she was wounded and cared back to strength; they wished her well even though they didn't know her. Marian smiled, grateful and moved by all the goodness people could possess

"It is a cruel world," she said. "Believe me, that I know—" Images of the sheriff, who shuffled her back into the hold like she was nothing but unnecessary luggage, flashed by. "But they have been so kind, to trust me like this and nurture me," she continued. "Will you tell them that I—tell them all how grateful I am? How much I hold them dear? I haven't been able to thank them - I often wished I could—"

"They call you princess," Balthazar laughed a bit louder than necessary. "I think they want to thank you, yes? They like having princess here."

The strange merchant made Marian laugh, not at his appallingly bad jokes but the strange sentiments he expressed when he was serious. She was not so sure they were happy having a 'princess' here as he called it. They found her exiting but she stretched their resources, ate their food, and the fact that she was a stranger must be at least a bit unsettling to them. They didn't know who she was; couldn't communicate with her at all. Such a mystery might be exotic and fascinating but she was also a little bit dangerous. Balthazar had pointed out that no one wanted to take a woman like her on a boat, and Marian had a feeling that his simple sentence might have revealed more than he intended. The villagers might even suspect that she was the reason that her ship went under; a kind being who cursed her surroundings with her ignorance, even though she never intended any harm.

Another wave of gratitude flushed over Marian when she met Adonia's bashful look. Of all the people in the village it was her that Marian felt fondest of; the huge, shy woman who had cared for her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The doors of her home had been wide open, and that is a brave thing to do. _Sometimes it is braver to be open and welcoming, than it is to be closed and defensive. _The sudden thought came with a pang of almost physical pain as it brought back the melancholy to Marian. If she had a flaw she would give the rest of her life to correct it was that she had been so afraid to open up. There had been so many wasted moments with Robin; her heart was his and his alone and she had still kept it slightly sheltered from his love. _How many mistakes I made when I thought myself strong; if there is no second chance I will pay with regret - long after the grief becomes bearable._

Balthazar continued to translate Marian's thanks to the villagers, using altogether too many words to explain what she had said by the sound of it. It pleased her because it meant that he would be more specific than she was. They would hardly leave until tomorrow earliest, but it felt important that her saviours knew how she felt. Marian smiled sadly and looked around her; behind the people the village laid, simple white houses and a nature with hard, spiky plants and parched soil; beyond the village was a beach that stretched and stretched as far as she could see; past the beach there was the sea. It was calm now, a huge, incredibly blue ocean where the sun glittered on the rippling waves. Her home was a green place, humid and cold far from the water, so very different from these harsh surroundings. She was finally going home.

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**NEXT: The arrow that never misses its target misses its target and the sword that never hesitates hesitates. **


	5. Chapter 4: Disillusion

**So here comes chapter 4. It is a really brave attempt to write in Guy's POV in the beginning. It was difficult and a bit painful, so be kind :lol:**

**X-Kate-X: lol, I know all about being distracted from coursework-- I'm very glad you like the fic.  
Loonylover: Why thank you. I write this as medicine for my own broke heart you know :lol:  
Zetta: Details tend to suck me up-- That is why all my fics (and chapters) become MUCH longer than I plan. Usually about twise as long, but I don't have a plan for how long this will be. Many subplots and stuff awaits.  
DeanParker: Don't worry, they will reunite eventually. I just have a really nice adventure for Marian in store first ;)  
Kates Master: NO WAY I'm killing Allan. He is my favourite of the outlaws (well, save Robs) so he is safe. Guy is safe until the end, I can't promise anything about the last chapters. I'm going to set angry Robin on him though. Heh heh  
Gatewatcher: Yeah I would have liked them to tackle that part of Marian's personality in s3, she was very guarded against Robin throughout s2 imho.**

**Thanx for all the comments!!! They make this humble fic writer mighty happy. :-D**

**Enjoy!  
Trix**

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Chapter 4: Disillusion

_-In which no one wins and there is much snarling and scoffing_

The sharp shadows of two camels and a horse striped the sand dunes as the sheriff of Nottingham and his cohorts made their way from the last pathetic stand of Robin Hood, to the last stand of King Richard. Guy was slowly turning ashen in the stool-shaped saddle as the camels rocked from side to side, and Vaysey watched the change with immense amusement. For weeks Guy had been wagon-sick, sea-sick and camel-sick in that order; time and again leaning over the ship's rail or crouching in a bush while vainly trying to keep some pride. It had simply been too good to miss out on the opportunity of buying camels when the horses were lost in the storm. The fact that the crusader by their side still rode a stallion was a nice touch that Vaysey was particularly proud of. It made Guy's torture all the more entertaining in comparison and the sheriff was a cheerful man who valued a good laugh.

"This is the way to travel Gisbourne," Vaysey exclaimed with a nasty grin at his sergeant. "The ships of the desert they call them apparently. I wonder why, heh."

Guy responded with a grunting sound and swallowed down a wave of nausea. His stomach flipped half a turn as regular as clockwork and he was feeling woozy. It would be a lie to say that Guy ever felt any great love toward his employer. Vaysey was a useful ally and up until this day he had always felt that it was worth some degree of humiliation. But camels! The big, ugly animal swayed from side to side and Guy's thighs felt sweaty against its rough body.

Guy tried not to moan as the camel took a hobbling leap and landed ungracefully on a slope, making the hard saddle thrust against the grumpy rider's crown jewels. Salt and water are not good for leather, and that was why Guy of Gisbourne found himself in the Holy Land with an entirely new wardrobe. To be perfectly honest the puffy white Saracen clothes were considerably better in this sweltering climate, but that was a poor comfort to Gisbourne's pride. He felt ridiculous and the loose cloth left his manhood dangling in a way that felt entirely too nude and unsheltered for his liking. He scowled and shifted his position.

"So," Vaysey continued and gave his sergeant a sideway glance. "Did you enjoy the little encounter with Hood today, hm? I thought he looked a little like a boiled shrimp." The sheriff laughed hoarsely and gave the sky a beaming smile.

"Yes," Guy agreed, and tried to ignore the emotions pressing on his callous demeanour. _Hood_. Guy had smiled when he let go of the foul engagement ring; smiled when he scoffed at his shackled nemesis; smiled in victory when he turned his back to the rows of beaten enemies. But it had been a shallow smile. In the end the ring in his hand meant that Marian died loving Hood. She was forever his, even though the sea had taken her from both of them. Guy had hoped to find solace in Robin's pain yet that comfort eluded him. Instead Marian haunted him even more when he was faced with her lover. Those big innocent eyes, that had given him such hope for the future, turned to look at him in accusation from beyond the grave. He wished to hate her for her treason but he failed. The last terrified look in her face was forever imprinted on his conscience; how she begged him for understanding, and yet he did nothing when the sheriff shuffled her back into the cargo hold.

The loss of ones dreams is sometimes a sensation that alienates a person from the life he leads. There is a purpose to the things we do and Guy had been motivated by greed and jealousy, but also something that he defined as loveIt was not an easy thing for Guy of Gisbourne to love, even less to trust that feeling to be returned to him. He had little practice, courtship and chivalry did not become him and he was always slightly awkward in delicate social situations. In the end it was what Marian could give him that he had loved in her, what she represented. She was pure and lovable, her spirit kind and soft where Guy's was hard and tough, and furthermore she had been Robin's. It ached to admit it but Guy wanted what Robin had; house, woman, wealth, even aspects of his personality. His life had been defined by envy and jealousy towards men like Robin of Locksley. In this pursuit, Marian became the highest treasure; the golden path of hope and redemption, and he craved her like nothing else. He had put her so high above humanity that he lifted her up to heroic proportions. It is true for heroes that we build them thrones that no human can be worthy, and when they fall they fall much further than any human can survive. It is also true for heroes that sometimes even when they fall we gaze up at the empty throne and cannot easily let go of our worship. In spite of himself Guy still loved her. In spite of himself he still searched desperately after some extenuating circumstance that could allow him to forgive her. In the end humans do not wish for reality when reality contradicts their dreams. Guy felt miserable in his disillusion.

By the time they reached the scene of the king's final stand Guy had a pounding headache. He slid down from the camel and landed ungracefully in the sand, arching his back as he fought the waves of nausea. When one has been in lack of stability for some amount of time, balance it is not easily regained, and the ground still rocked from side to side under Gisbourne's feet. He plopped down to hide behind a sand dune and pressed his chest to the burning soil.

"Did anyone bring any snacks to the entertainment?" the sheriff grinned as he made himself fairly comfortable beside Gisbourne. "Not? Well it will be a good show all the same."

King Richard stood in the middle of a crater, his figure hidden by a gold brimmed cloak that made him look like the petal of an exotic flower. He seemed small, his posture less regal than Guy recalled from their last meeting, but the scorching heat of the Holy Land could wear down even the strongest of men. However, the heat would not be a problem for the king much longer. His death was closing in, shaped like a Saracen warrior on an agile Arabic horse. Little puffs of yellow sand followed the Saladin impostor as he rode swiftly towards the target, drew his curved blade and revealed his true identity. The thud, thud, thud of the hooves were like the drums for a hanged man; a final countdown that ended in silence and with that silence death.

"I'm not really Saladin."

"And I'm not really King Richard."

There was a moment when Guy thought his eyes deceived him, but from his left side the sheriff hissed 'Hood' through clenched teeth. It really was Robin Hood, the man he had left to die stood with his sword raised and the fancy cloak fallen to the ground. Did this man never die? How could he stand and fight when Guy had taken everything from him? When he had been tied to a pole and left to grieve his love until his body was nothing but a parched shell? What was she to him? A pawn in his game; a woman to cajole and use for his purposes; another soldier to feed to the arrows? If she had given her love to Guy then he would have cherished her and kept her safe. Hood failed to shelter her even though it was a man's duty to keep his woman protected. What man would chose the safety of his king over Marian time and again? Leave her in peril while he scampered off into the forest and played pranks on decent men?! You did not use a woman's kindness like that; twisted her mind until she didn't know her own actions! Women should be lead and influenced by men, it was in the nature of humanity and society was built around that notion. Yet those who can be directed wisely can also be wheedled down into the gutter. Robin stole Marian's innocence; destroyed a pure soul whose only crime was to love him. In truth it wasn't Guy's love which had been misdirected, it was Marian's. Hood's love—no his desire—for her was reasonable, but Guy failed to grasp why Marian had let herself be so easily persuaded. Guy had offered her everything she could possibly need; a good home where she could carry on the proud legacy of both their families. Instead she had been misled and coaxed down a path towards her own demise. In her kindness and trusting love she followed. She was doomed long before they left her on that sinking ship; tainted by blind loyalties to a cause she could not have understood.

It truly hurt too much to hate Marian. Thus Guy laid all his putrid rage on Robin. A woman was easier to love when she was weak and victimised than when she was strong and independent. He grabbed his sword harder as he watched the fight between Hood and the Saladin impostor, saw Robin's agile body duck and avoid another blow. He was tired, weakened by the heat and made mistake after mistake, yet he kept his balance. It struck Guy that Robin was a better fighter than he was; smaller and perhaps even weaker, but fast and skilled. King Richard had chosen him as an ally for a reason. He kept him close because he must have seen the young man's potential. You didn't remain king of England if you weren't slightly paranoid; Richard trusted men like Robin or Carter to watch his back. Yet the regal paranoia was also the reason to why the sheriff's scheme worked—well, almost worked. When Robin was accused of being a traitor the king trusted in those words because his fear was bigger than his loyalty. He couldn't afford to trust his friends so he walked straight into the arms of his enemies.

"Gisbourne!" the sheriff gave his sergeant a hard shuffle. "Enough of the day dreaming! We are losing! Do something!"

Guy grunted and ignored the furious little man by his side. His eyes were set on Robin; the scruffy figure swaggered slightly as he rose and mounted an Arabic stallion, prepared on following the impostor who fled the scene. The outlaw had the determination of a man set to finish a job with any means necessary, but he was exhausted. If Guy got him now he would have a chance of winning, in spite of Robin being a trained soldier with more proficiency. The king was fast forgotten as Guy made his way to the camel; prepared to let Robin follow him to the very end. Their swords would meet at last, metal kissing metal in a final dance over the woman who loved one and was loved by the other. Men like Hood - affable charmers who swaggered though life with a cheeky grin - they never loved like more arduous men did. It was easy for them, easy to gain love and easy to get over it. What did they know of the true value of love when it came to them like moths to a torch?! Guy's love was deeper because it was rarer; he was exclusively hers and his devotion persisted throughout her betrayals. Somehow Marian had become the top priority and everything else simply means to attain her. Guy felt deprived of the ultimate price of his labours, and it was Hood who took it from him. The roguish outlaw always landed on his feet. He broke the law and remained loved by everyone; the gallant lord of Locksley who enjoyed a temporary leisure in the forest. As long as he lived Robin would be Guy's ghost; the real love of his woman; the real lord of his peasants. Thus Robin Hood had to die; or there would never be peace in Guy of Gisbourne's life.

---

"Robin! Can you forgive me?"

"I already have." The words meant nothing. Robin was already on the horse, his eyes firmly on the Saladin impostor who disappeared in the horizon. Now the king asked him for forgiveness and he answered with the simplest words. _I have already forgiven—forgiven what? I have forgotten._ He wanted to be left alone, not discuss whatever feelings he had towards the king. His mind was filled with the goal to take care of this one job; finish it off neatly as he always did. Today he had no strength to hold a grudge against his king. In the end he didn't come here for Richard. He followed Gisbourne and the sheriff all the way down to this hell because Marian was with them._And I failed_.

Robin was a good soldier; a loyal servant to his country; a devoted follower of his majesty King Richard. He noted that fact almost absently as he heard his voice shout out that they had to finish this now. The sun still burned his skin and his body ached as he set off in a wild chase after the Saracen assassin and his allies; the sheriff and Guy; Saracens and crusaders side by side in malice. Robin had his men behind him, around him, in front of him but he only saw the prey. He had been a hunter long before he was a soldier.

---

The arrow from the crossbow struck down beside Robin with a twang. This deserted town was a trap; they followed the sheriff and Guy and ended up to be hunted themselves. The yellow clay skeletons of the houses formed a difficult setting for a battle, rubble crowded the streets and there were too many places to hide.

"Where is the king?!" Much exclaimed as he pressed his back to some sacks that lay discarded on the empty square.

"I do not know—" Robin drew a wheezing breath, the sand heavy in his lunges; his skin burning; his arms trembling from exhaustion. "Split up. Find the king, keep him safe."

"Kill the sheriff?"

_Save the king. Save England. Kill the sheriff. Then we get married. _The memory came with a pang of physical pain to Robin and he had to bite his lip to not give out a moan. They would never get married now, and that made everything else seem futile. Still, he had to do this; one last stand; a fight to end the fighting. This had been Marian's cause as well; her voice still sung through the battle screams. He would not have her die in vain. The reminiscence of her death sent a roaring rage through his limbs; shocks of a berserker's fury that pushed the grief back and gave him strength to fight.

"Yes, kill the sheriff," he said, and scrambled to his feet.

---

Robin's bow was fired in rage, and his bow never missed when it was spurred on by fury. In fact, his bow never missed at all if he didn't intend it to, but when this red hot rage took over there was no thought behind the arrows. Men were just moving targets, not people who lived and laughed and longed and lost. Another arrow was fired and dug itself so deep into a Saracen soldier that the striped feathers brushed his chest; colourful against the black cloth like a macabre ornament. He had lost track of his men by then; all the houses looked the same, and as he dashed through the streets he found himself on little squares that seemed cloned. Or did he merely run in circles? His body was warm and aching; his limbs exhausted; his mind slow and disorientated.

The blow came from nowhere; a dull pain followed by the melodic sound of shattered ceramic. In his state of confusion the force took Robin by surprise. He fell and his recurved bow was thrown across the square until it rested against a building. He rolled over to catch a glimpse of a man dressed in Saracen white; a face that he knew and knew to loathe partly hid under a scarf. In spite of the cheerful colour Guy of Gisbourne seemed darker than ever. Robin gave the ceramic vessel by his side a glance; it was a heavy storage pot, but it would take a forceful blow against the opponents head and a great deal of luck to serve as a fatal weapon. Guy had a sword in his hand and a bow stood leaned by his side; he could have killed him easily had he used one of those.

"Throwing pots and pans?" Robin said as he rose and tried not to cringe at the pain in his back. "You never told me your weapon's trainer was a kitchen maid."

Guy snorted. "I want to see your face when I kill you Hood."

Robin's smile seemed to freeze in his face, anger clouding his eyes as he drew his sword. "Did you enjoy seeing Marian's face when you killed her as well?"

"I wouldn't know, I did not kill Marian."

"She was on your ship when it went und—" Robin's sentence was disrupted by Gisbourne's sword cutting through the air. The heavy weapon was swung in a wide arch and met Robin's curved blade with a metallic clang. The blow was heavy, made the younger man swagger from the force, but he quickly regained his balance and retaliated with a swift attack. It was important to not show weakness in battle; once you stopped to be offensive in your fighting you were already loosing.

Back and forth the attacks went, the cloth in their clothes clung to their sweaty bodies as they lashed out and backed off without winning any ground. Several centuries after both of them was dead there would be a war fought in much the same way, year after year of a pathetic border moving back and forth some measly miles. They lost strength but gained nothing, and Robin felt how burned his skin was when he moved his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His muscles were weak and ached with every blow.

"Marian," he panted in dire need of a pause from the fighting. "How disappointed she would be if she saw you now—"

"I loved Marian," Guy sneered and backed off with his sword still raised. "I cared for her. What did you do, Hood? Use her to save your precious king."

"You think you loved her? You didn't even know her!" Robin's breathing was fast and shallow. His voice trembled by the mass of memories that flushed over him and temporarily drowned the rage. "She didn't want your love! She didn't—she didn't want you to love her! She wanted you to let her be. But you just couldn't do that could you? You had to—pursue her."

"She came to me!" Guy yelled. "Because I could protect her when you failed!"

"She came to you because she wanted to help me!" Robin burst out, so sick to see this man's pathetic love. The sword suddenly felt heavy in his hand so he let it fall down; the tip of the curved blade scraped the parched ground. He stared into Guy's eyes and saw his own loss mirrored there. For that brief instance, he shared with his archenemy a moment of puzzled realization: They had loved her to death. In the end Robin feared she perished in his rightful war; died because she loved him and would give everything for him and for their common goal. It was just that she was the one thing Robin wasn't prepared to give. _I am more use in the castle_. No! She was more use with him!

"God took her from us because you didn't have the decency to let her go," Robin scoffed with a voice that sounded thick with unreleased tears. "And because I didn't have the decency to force her to stay with me. I didn't—" His voice trailed off into a stifled sob; it seemed impossible to talk when his body was this frozen in sorrow. The words 'God took her from us' still sounded strange in his mouth and this conversation wore him out even more than the battle had. With every word he spoke she died for him again. Every time they said her name the realisation screamed out in agony; _Oh God she is dead!!!_ That sentence hammered on him; ripped him apart until the pain it seemed unbearable. It was a disaster too big to grasp. How could he possibly live knowing there was no Marian!? _No Marian_. The line could just as well have been 'no tomorrow', 'no future', 'no hope' or 'no joy'. The line could just as well have been 'no Robin'; in truth in that moment and many to follow he would have preferred if it had been.

"God took her because the coin showed the wrong side up," Guy mumbled. "The sheriff flipped a coin. We should have waited a day. Then she would have arrived to the Holy Land with us."

"You flipped a coin?!"

"I wanted to wait! If the sheriff had only listened—" Guy sighed and rolled his eyes to the blue sky. Why was he trying to defend himself to this man?

"You forget who you are talking to," Robin scoffed in naked contempt. "Marian believed she could change you but I knew—I knew you were too weak. You will never change—you're the sheriff's dog, Gisbourne! Dogs don't bite the hand that feeds them. Not even for—"

"A bitch?" Guy snorted and raised an eyebrow.

"A woman," Robin responded calmly. "Not even for a woman who sees something good in them when there is none. Not even for—love." He spat out the last word, as if the mere mentioning of love was a scorn in this situation.

"You are right Hood. She did love me, and in time she would see sense. We both know it."

"No."

"A woman needs security, I could give her that. My close cooperation with the sheriff allowed me to offer her that."

"Your close cooperation with the sheriff killed her!"

Guy snorted and stared at his opponent; silent since he was at loss of a decent response. He could not deny it to be partially true, or at least true enough to make him feel uneasy.

"Never mind," Guy snarled and raised his sword. They could throw insults back and forth all day but in the end they would never reach any common ground. There was no common ground between them; just battlegrounds. "It doesn't matter now," he continued. "I am going to kill you Hood. This ends today."

Guy took a leap at Robin, thrust down the sword before Robin could react and his meagre response nearly took his life. He raised the Saracen blade in time for it to catch Guy's sword, but the force beat it away from his faint grip. He watched in melancholic regret at his weapon fell and flipped away from him, landed by Guy's feet and rested glimmering in the sun - out of his reach. There was a look of triumph in Guy's face as he watched his disarmed enemy realise that he was trapped. Robin threw out his arms and backed off from another swing of the sword in Guy's hand.

"It is over Hood," Gisbourne sneered. "You die. I live. I get your land—your title. Locksley will be Gisbourne when I come back."

Robin swallowed and backed off again, continued to avoid the blows until he was pinned with his back against a clay wall.

"Any famous last words for the world to forget, Hood?" Guy smirked. Robin was cornered. Done for. Finally his last moment had come.

"I am sorry Marian," Robin murmured and his eyes got lost in a thought; oblivious of Gisbourne's snide remarks and scorn. "I tried, my love, but we lost. Someone else will have to win our battles."

The words travelled through the wind and reached Guy as he raised his sword, and for a moment they made him hesitate. He had been so sure that Robin could not truly love Marian, and yet his last thoughts were with her, asking her for forgiveness. Robin said 'we' when he spoke of Marian. They lost; both of them; as if Guy was the enemy and Robin and Marian fought side by side to defeat him. It only a lasted moment, but a moment was all Robin needed to see his chance. He thrust his knee up to Guy's abdomen and took a leap to the side, making the sword miss him and hit the wall with a cloud if dried clay. Guy bent double and collapsed to the ground, causing the weapon fall from his grip, and Robin kicked it away. Quickly Guy scrambled to his feet again and stood facing Robin. The younger man's eyes were red, the face puffy and burned, and he stared at Guy trough the painful tears. He was too dehydrated to cry but he did it anyway and it stung against his sore skin.

"So—" Guy snarled. "It seems we're both unarmed now."

Robin snorted, a joyless smile walking across his features like a ghost. "Not quite—" he responded softly before he raised his hand a caught a Saracen bow that came flying through the air. "Thank you, Much. Now—" he laughed hoarsely and laid an arrow to the string. "I suggest you run—"

Having Robin Hood's bow drawn and aimed at your heart is not a pleasurable sensation at any occasion, and it does not get any better knowing that the outlaw is crazed by grief. Guy was not a brave man. In spite of his menacing exterior he didn't like pain, and he felt sure that death truly wouldn't suit him. Now he found himself backing away from the aimed bow, turned right around and ran. He had his eyes shut when he heart the string snap, said half an Ave Maria and—

The arrow hit the ground several feet away from its target. Robin found himself staring at it in bewilderment. His arrows nevermissed! Yet there it was and Guy disappeared around the corner unharmed.

"Master!" Much came running up and followed Robin's gaze. "Robin what happened why didn't you shoot him?!"

"I—I did—I," Robin shook his head. He did shoot him. He aimed and released the arrow as he had done a million times before, but right then there had been a tremble. He had seen Marian before him, let his mind stray and the arrow hit the ground. He blinked a couple of times. _Marian. Oh God, she is dead!!!_

"Well, was the arrow crooked?" Much continued. Robin was shaking; tiny little ripples that pulled his limbs and made him look like a terrified rodent. "Robin? How are you? Are you well? You're not hurt?"

_Hurt? Marian is dead!!! _"No I am fine Much—How is the king?"

"An arrow in his arm—And well—Carter is dead."

Robin nodded absently. He was tired beyond imagination. His love was dead. In spite of the king being alive the war that Robin seemed to have been fighting his entire life felt lost. He had enough for one day.

--------------------------------------------------------

**NEXT: The writer of this fic caves in to popular demand and saves Carter.  
**


	6. Chapter 5: Departure

**So, here comes chapter 5. It aims to do three things: Save a certain crusader, end the events in the Holy Land (apart from the Djaq/Will plot) and start off Djaq/Will and Allan's stories a little bit. There is no Marian in this chapter but she will be in the next update. :) **

**Thanx for all the reviews!  
Zetta: lol patience is a virtue, they will be reunited eventually, but there is stuff that needs to happen first. I love writing Robin/Guy fights btw, so much tension there.  
DeanParker: PATIENCE, SHE WILL END UP WITH THEM EVENTUALLY! lol. Really, you people are so demanding! lol.  
GateWatcher: I think he would have liked to kill Guy. Robin is having trouble to do anything atm. I rather think he would be the kind of man who tries to bury his grief inside, and he will be rather irrational and unstable in the upcoming chapters as a result of it.  
Dina C: It most certainly will be a better ending! That is sort of the point of the story, lol. I found Guy difficult because his character is very confusing in s2 I think. I preferred write him the way he was in s1.  
Mizco: I am not a huge fan of Guy but I do like to try and write in character and be fair to him. In his way he does love Marian.  
X-Kate-X: lol, yeah Carter seems to be popular-- There will be more coming about Robin's problem with his bow, it's a little idea I got. And yes, it is rather scary to see him miss actually. I think it makes a powerful picture of his state of mind.  
LoonyLover: Marian's story comes in the next update. :) Or the start of it at least.**

Thanx again for commenting! It makes me very happy. :D  
Love,  
Trix

* * *

**Chapter 5: Departure**

_-In which Carter is considerably less dead and Will and Allan have a chat_

Time is a chaotic web where lives cross, entwine and part like savage threads; pulling one single strand can change the course of many. There is no doubt that the web would be a very different one if Marian had arrived in the Holy Land. Her presence would have pulled the threads; sent ripples through the net of tangled destinies and altered their story. Because they thought Marian dead, the day of Vaysey's failed coup against the king was the first day that Robin Hood fought with his heart black and his eyes clouded by loss. It was the first day in a long time that Much felt that Robin might be the one who needed to be lead, and not the one who needed to be followed. It was also the first day that Will and Djaq exchanged an initial brief word about their shared future. This was the way the net was woven in Marian's absence; it became the stone that split the stream in different directions.

---

Much really did think that Carter was dead when he found Robin and broke the gruesome news to him. He had seen it, and in the manner of Much's impulsive, often rash mind, he had chosen believe his own eyes. It is just that sometimes eyes need backup from other senses, and this time fate had in fact spared Carter's life. Much would have known that if he had cared to investigate the matter more thoroughly, but it was his curse to be easily distracted by impulses. All the twists and turns his life took never managed to change that particular weakness in him.

Much was searching for Robin when he discovered Carter on top of a building. The blonde man was involved in a skirmish with the treacherous crusader; a man called Sir James whose grey temples and erect posture gave him an undeserved air of dignity. Swords crossed and clenched; bodies pushed and shuffled each other across the flat roof; gaping mouths shouted insults that got muffled by the distance. Something about the sight was uncanny; a little bit too absurd for a country where your eyes frequently deceived you. The two white tabards with crimson crosses made it resemble one man who was fighting his own reflection; the heat vibrating around their struggling figures as if it was all an illusion. Yet Much recognised Carter's way of moving; it was smoother, resembled Robin's style, and distinctly different from his opponent's. He hesitated for a moment while he wondered if he should intervene. Robin and the king; those were really the priorities. Not Carter. Then fate seemed to choose for him.

A sword against Carter's torso; a scream that was abruptly cut off; a figure that fell to his knees and collapsed on the roof. Much watched in horror as Sir James kicked down Carter's lifeless body with an air of triumph. He felt like he choked on his tongue and the familiar panic-stricken anger rolled like a wave through his body. War worked like this. You started out harmless and kind and were gradually spurred on to deeds that were less and less human. There was a dead Saracen with a crossbow by Much's side, so he grabbed the weapon from the corpse's limp fingers and took aim. It took some seconds to load it, another second to fire the arrow and see it pierce the chain mail of Sir James' back. Crossbow arrows were smaller and went through the armour as easily as if it had been made of wool. He didn't stand a chance.

Much didn't like corpses. Even when they were fresh and looked like sleeping men the lack of life frightened him. All men are mortal and Much hated to be confronted with his own mortality; as if a life was nothing more than a light that could be blown out by a gust. Thus he hesitated before he started to move towards Carter, and halfway there the sound of commotion from the main square hindered his bold steps. He froze while the fallen crusader was still nothing but a heap of white cloth, dropped the crossbow and ran the other direction. Dead men didn't need him and Carter wasn't going anywhere.

The king was in the middle of the square, hurt but alive and surrounded by every outlaw but Robin. Where was Robin? Again fear grasped Much's heart as he dashed through the clay houses in search of his master; screamed his name until his moth was to dry and he started to focus on the sounds instead. It was a wise move because he heard Robin long before he saw him. It was the noises of a battle; metal against metal; men screaming insults that echoed form wall to wall. _Just like Carter_, Much thought. _History repeats itself before the bodies are cold on the ground. _Dead men didn't need him but Robin did. Every memory of the day seemed to be torn to confetti when he finally found his master. He tossed him the bow that lay discarded by a wall and watched the balance in the fight change. Robin fired an arrow that ended up buried in the sand, leaving Gisbourne to disappear around a corner; scampering away like the rat he was.

Much's worry was dulled by relief. At least Robin lived; that meant that there was hope in the world still. In that moment he could have sworn that he had seen the last breath leaving Carters lungs; the heat and confusion filled in the gaps and made the reminiscence whole but distorted. It never occurred to him that he might have been mistaken.

"Master!" Much came running up and followed Robin's gaze as he stared at the disappearing Gisbourne. "Robin what happened why didn't you shoot him?!"

"I—I did—I," Robin shook his head. He looked bewildered, as if he had lost track of time and the world was a maze around him. Worry slowly returned to Much at the sight of his friend's trembling body; uncontrollable ripples that pulled his limbs and made his breathing ragged.

"Well, was the arrow crooked?" he continued concerned; Robin's arrows never missed! It could not be a good sign that an arrow aimed at Sir Guy's flesh found nothing but sand. "Robin? How are you? Are you well? You're not hurt?"

"No I am fine Much—" Robin answered oddly detached. Much bit back the worst of his concern; at least Robin wasn't wounded. "How is the king?" the outlaws' leader continued.

"An arrow in his arm—And well—Carter is dead."

Much cringed at his own words. He wished he could bring Robin good news and instead he came with this; another fallen friend. God knows there had been enough of them during the years in the Holy Land. Robin nodded absently at the statement and Much gave him a brotherly pat on his arm. They stood side by side through sorrow, or so Much would like to think. Much was strong where Robin was weak and Robin was steady where Much was frail. Yet Robin only continued to stare at the arrow that missed.

"I liked Carter," Much tried cautiously. "We should say our farewell; he is—over there, some streets away. It was Sir James who—"

"Much I do not care to hear it," Robin interrupted him. Enough; he wanted to be left alone.

---

Robin went blank once the fight was over. That is the only way Much could describe it. The anger faded, the grief was buried somewhere deep inside, the joy of the victory and the pain of the defeat simply remained absent. His steps were heavy but he walked by Much's side, his head dipped down, the sword scraping against the sandy street. It made a little trail behind them - a notch beside the dishevelled soil where their feet had formed craterlike indentations - soon to be wiped away by the faint desert breeze. The winds of this country didn't bring any cool; it merely disturbed the sand and carried it off into your eyes and under your garments.

They found the others gathered around the place where Carter fell. Djaq sat crouched by his body—his body? Much stopped and stared. Carter's blonde head was pushed up from the hard ground; he leaned on his left arm and gave Djaq a light shuffle as she tried to hold him down. For a dead man he seemed quite evidently alive.

"I'm fine," the crusader grunted. "Don't fuss."

"Carter!" Much exclaimed, shifting a sideway glance at Robin who allowed himself a puzzled frown. "But I thought you were dead!"

"I think you may find—" Carter coughed and cringed as he raised leaning on his sword. "That the rumours of my death are somewhat exaggerated."

"But—but I saw you fall! I saw you—I saw you fall. Ah, it was just a temporary setback wasn't it? It's just that it can be so hard to tell—" His eyes darted between Carter and Robin, stuttering while he tried to regain some pride. He felt embarrassed to have told Robin that Carter was dead, bringing a man in grief even more pain through the loss of a friend. Marian would be angry if she knew. Reckless, insensitive Much. Robin's expression became aloof and lost in thought as soon at the confusion was cleared, the frown wiped from his features.

"The miracle of chain-mail, my friend," Carter explained. "He hit me with the broadside of the sword. Still, I do think I owe you."

"Who, me?!"

"It was you who shot him, was it not?"

"Ah—yes," Much smiled nervously. "As it happens."

"Then I owe you my life. A crusader does not leave a job half done. He would have returned to make sure I didn't rise."

Robin moved over to Carter and gave him a brotherly hug, careful not to touch the crusader's sore chest. "I am glad to see you alive," he said in a soft yet disturbingly impersonal voice, as if he was reciting a lesson. Something about him seemed dulled, the sparkle in his eyes replaced by shadows.

"I am sorry Robin—" Carter responded.

"Sorry?" King Richard moved into the scene with the authority of a man who expects to be in the centre of attention simply by being present. "All well that ends well my friends! This is not the time for sorrow, we have won this battle. We will feast as kings tonight."

A tense silence fell around the group of outlaws and noblemen.

"His Majesty doesn't know," Carter said with a sideway glance at Robin.

"Pardon?"

"You Majesty don't know the full story," Carter repeated a bit louder and turned to the king. "All did not end well. Robin suffered a loss."

"A loss?"

"The death of his fiancée, Your Majesty. Her ladyship Marian Fitzwalter was lost in a storm _en rout_ here."

Robin shut his eyes; a brief moment of vulnerability when his wounds lay open to the world. The king expressed his shock and condolences, his tone regal as always. He was trained to articulate himself according to the situation, said all the right words because a word spoken by a king was right per definition. Robin thought how it hurt; even though they didn't know it and never meant for their comfort to burn, it did. It hurt too much to hear them talk about this; talk about him as if he was a problem; a man to pity and drown in empathy. All it did was make it real, and he did not wish it to be real. Thus their compassion suffocated him. He preferred to deal with this on his own, bury the pain inside and put up the old familiar wall. Talking could not bring her back; her lungs wouldn't fill with air because he cried in front of them. It was in the nature of grief that the only person who could possibly give solace was the only person who couldn't give it. She was dead. He shrugged the king's hand off his shoulder, wondering how royal compassion could feel so heavy, and turned his back on the group.

"It is getting colder and His Majesty is hurt," he stated. "We need to get back to the camp."

---

Will chose to tell Allan first. He wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps he simply used the practice of exclusion, picking away one after one from the list. Little John would feel awkward; Much seemed far too worried about Robin; Robin was grieving. Really, Allan was the only one left if you boiled down this sour potion to the very bottom. Yet then again it could also be that he had been Will's first choice. Will had been furious with the hopeless trickster when he betrayed them, but it had been confusingly simple to forgive once he was back. You wanted to forgive Allan-a-Dale; that was part of his charm. He could get away with murder that one.

The two men were sitting outside Djaq's uncle's house; sheltered by a strange, gnarly tree as the intensely orange sun was sinking in the horizon. The shadows grew around them, became long and dim as opposed to the sharp shades of the day. Everything in this country was harsh and extreme; much of the vegetation looked stubborn and spiky and while the days were sweltering the nights were cold and blue.

"Strangle place, ey?" Allan burst out where he sat slumped against the clay wall of the building. "Fist hot, then cold—like a bloody woman this country, can't make up its mind or whatever."

Will smiled and pealed some dry bark off the tree. The wood in these branches was tough and soaked in sticky sap, so very different from the parched exterior. There was more to things than met the eye- be it men or trees. Allan-a-Dale was proof thereof. He came across as a clumsy charlatan, yet he could surprise everyone by suddenly behaving tactful or even heroic.

"A man could live here though," Will responded cautiously. Allan snorted and threw out his arms.

"Live 'ere?! Why would a bloke want to do that? The lasses are all covered up—and I'm not being funny, but it's too much sand mate."

A smile grazed Will's lips again. "Perhaps a man would like to stay here because it is where his heart belongs." He watched as Allan caught up with the change in the atmosphere and pondered over what Will had just said. "Because his love wants to stay here," Will continued. "Allan, do you understand what I am saying?"

Allan gave out a sigh. He was no fool. "Djaq?" he said, and Will nodded.

"Djaq," he agreed.

"Look, mate," Allan moistened his lips and pulled himself up to a different position, tense as a result of the seriousness of the conversation. "I know you are young and in love or whatever, but this is a bad idea. I mean—it's not that she hasn't got assets, mind you—she's Djaq. But you're the most English lad I've ever met, and this is bloody far from Sherwood."

"I know it is. But Djaq likes it here. And if she could stay in Sherwood then I can stay here. Why not?"

"But what about your brother!? Little Lukey, you're going to leave him all alone? Your own brother?!"

This subject was sore, it required some tact. Allan had lost his brother and Will knew that he sometimes viewed Will as a replacement for Tom; a chance to do it right this time around. As if Allan would ever do anything right. His talent was to get himself out of trouble, while he was notoriously bad at avoiding getting himself into them in the first place.

"He lives with his aunt," Will explained. "He will be fine—Look Allan I would like you to go to Scarborough when you come back to England. I need you to explain—"

"You want me to be the bearer of bad news!? No way mate, I'm not doing that. Not even for you."

"Not for me, Allan, for Luke! For my brother." Will took a deep breath. "I want you to tell him—tell him to be a carpenter, right? To be a good carpenter and make his big brother proud."

"Yeah the brother that abandoned 'im—He won't like you for this Will. Do you think he will care if you're proud of him?"

"No," Will agreed. "He will be angry at first, but he will understand when he finds someone to care for himself. I want to do this for Djaq, Allan. I want her to have a chance to live her life, and I want to be with her. We have talked about this."

"Wha? You and her?" Allan asked with an edge of resentment in his tone. "You talked about how you would leave Luke, leave Robin and everything. When did you start to talk about that?"

"Well we came here, and she was so happy—" Will bit his lip. He had not intended to get to the very core of their reason to stay behind, yet Allan seemed so angry with him. "When Robin lost Marian," he explained. "All I could think was: What if that was me and Djaq? What if we wasted our chance? And then it turned out that she had been thinking that as well. We have a chance for a life here, Allan. We need to take that chance."

Allan let his body slide down by the wall again, gazed off into the horizon where shreds of bluish clouds striped the sinking sun.

"Alright," he mumbled. "Whatever. I guess it's no worse than kissing up to the sheriff. Mind you, I'm sure my descent was better paid."

"It's not a descent Allan! I'm making a choice to be happy."

"Yeah well, that's what I did too though. Didn't work."

Will bit down the rush of anger. How dared he compare this with his treason!? He took a deep breath and pealed off some more of the bark from the tree.

"Djaq and I have talked," he insisted, avoiding the argument. "We have already decided to stay. We'll send a carrier pigeon with you, Allan. That way, if you really need us you can send a note."

Allan shrugged. "Sure, I'll call him Chuckles. Perhaps we can train 'im to carry an axe—he'll be real use that one."

"What the pigeon?"

"Yeah, the chicken. 'Lardner'" Allan exclaimed. "What kind of name is that for a bird? Funny name if you ask me."

"It's a pigeon Allan, not a chicken. It is a very noble bird, intelligent Djaq says."

"Nah there is only two kinds of birds if you ask me; the ones you kiss and the ones you cook."

"Or the ones that fly away and the ones that make you feel like you're flying," Will added with a grin. The edge in Allan's voice seemed to be dulled as if he had resigned to Will's choice. "You will talk to Luke then?"

There were some moments of silence, and then Allan nodded.

"Yeah, sure I'll do it—it's not like people expect something good coming from me anyway."

"Thank you, Allan," Will said with an honest smile. "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it—" Allan mumbled. His eyes were following a Saracen girl who crossed the yard to get water; the clay vessel rested against the generously rounded hip and a lock of dark hair had escaped from her veil. He cocked an eyebrow when she blushed and turned away at his brash gaze. "I'm good with birds," he added with a cheeky grin.

---

Time is indeed a chaotic web, and now the gang of Robin Hood was scattering; the threads of their lives spinning in different directions. Marian was in the Eastern Roman empire, believed to be dead while trying to make her way back to England on her own. Robin, Much, Little John and Allan departed for Sherwood and left the yellow sand behind. Robin still called it 'going home', but it felt like a mockery; home was a state of mind and his heart was lost at sea with his love. Furthermore, in search of their home, Djaq and Will stayed behind in the Holy Land. Yet the stories of these heroes are not so simple. Even though the threads were splitting now, it would only be a matter of time before their lives became entwined again. They had a long way to go before the last chapter was written in their shared story.

King Richard and Carter's eyes followed the four disappearing outlaws as they started to walk the long road home. They looked scruffy and tired, Robin's steps heavy compared to the last time he left this country behind. He was the symbol of hope for the people of Nottingham yet hope was the one thing he didn't have. The king would return eventually and the battles end, but when ceasefire came to the horrors of his homeland he failed to see a new beginning for himself.

"Robin Hood," Richard said with a smile. "That is a fine man, a good soldier. Shame his heart was too soft for this war."

"But he is right, Your Majesty," Carter interposed. "We need to end this. England needs its king."

"Yes, I fear I must return if I am to have a kingdom left to return to," the king sighed. He did not look forward to peace. He was a man who loved battles and adventure and peace appeared to him as a state of boredom. Yet the crusade was getting old and now his throne seemed to be in jeopardy. "My mother has accomplished many good things," he continued. "But my brother was not her finest moment. I dare say he needs a little reprisal."

Carter smiled graciously. At least this crusade was drawing towards its end. He cringed as the horse started moving under him and his hand brushed against the sore ribs. Indeed he was a lucky man to live still.

"Yes," King Richard continued as they turned back to the camp. "I will negotiate with Saladin. This winter we return home Carter, God will have to look after England until then."

"God and Robin Hood, Your Majesty," Carter added with a final glance at the figures that disappeared in the horizon.

* * *

**NEXT: Our heroes are going home, but Marian finds her journey may be one with detours.**


	7. Chapter 6: Times of calm and storm

**Mira-and-Allan: why thank you, I love you for loving it. lol.  
Zetta: Yeah I hate all the fuss around logging in and stuff. Great long review though, I love those. Angry, grieving Robin is one of the reasons to why it takes some time for maz and him to reunite in this fic. It is interesting to explore Robin when he is not the perfect leader, when he is in a position to be irrational and make mistakes. (Also, when they finally meet again it will be fabulous :D)  
DeanParker: hehe, yeah I know. But they WILL end up together. In fact, almost everyone in this fic will eventually end up in Sherwood. There is just some traveling first.  
Gatewatcher: Erm, well I seem to be saying this a lot, but it will take some time before the happy reunion, although there will be one. About Much thinking Carter was dead-- lol well it wasn't exactly planned like that. When I wrote the chapter before (chapter 4 that is) I was planning on killing Carter. Then I changed my mind, but then Much had already told Robin that Carter was dead, so I had to twist the story a bit you know. yada yada yada  
Mizco: Yeah poor Allan-- I love him though so he will have a happy ending as well. Lots of stuff happening there. Poor Robs as well oc, but he will be fine eventually.  
Spinningisfun: Yes, Marian is going to see ze count at one point in the future :D (I'm bringing back all the stuff I liked with s2, and I loved the count)  
LoonyLover: lol yeah I love writing Allan, it's so much fun. lol.  
Kates Master: I will not reveal my plan for Will and Djaq but let's just say I won't leave them out of the story. ;) Indeed, I think Robin will do more for England than God, but that might have to do with me not being the most pious of humans. lol.  
x-Kate-x: You will catch up with Marian in this chapter. Writing Allan was great fun, I adore him.  
LadyElsii: Aw thank you. :D I try to make the story as vivid as possible to the readers. **

**Finally-- Thanx for all the comments!!! You people are GOLD. I adore you all. **

* * *

**Chapter 6: Times of calm and times of storm**

_-In which Robin is a crap archer and Marian takes a bold decision_

Every life has periods of calm and periods of storm, and the journey back to England was period of calm for Robin Hood. It was not a good kind of calm - rather the kind of thick, stifling serenity that precedes an electrical storm; suffocating and heavy as if the air resented being breathed and fought back. On this day nearly a month after Marian's death nature seemed to mimic that false serenity. The outlaws had stopped to camp in a forest in southern France, where the air was warm and sticky in spite of the approaching autumn. Robin often disappeared in search of solitude when they stopped walking and this day was not different; he took his bow and his thoughts and let the foliage close behind him.

Robin had an archer's fingers. They were calloused; the skin hard where the thick silk string had scuffed against it so many times that there was a constant notch from the pressure. He had an archer's hands and an archer's arms; strong, steady and controlled from the drawing of the arrow to the final shot. The art of archery was almost hypnotic to him; the scratching sound of the arrow against the quiver; the creaking of the string as he pulled it back; the twang followed by a low thud. Focus, release and score. The feeling was satisfying, addictive, even slightly arousing.

Before the Holy Land the archery had been a perfect refuge, a place where reality, however complicated, seemed simple. Yet between those bloodstained sand dunes his art had failed him for the first time. It was not so much the horror of war as the pleasure that had eventually tainted it and made the sanctuary foul. The satisfaction from the shot was followed by guilt and regret, but even when the brutality tore him apart the shot never failed to satisfy him. Robin did not know himself in that brutality, since, in the end, he had not been born a man of war.

Knowing that his pleasure derived from the pain of other people made it harder and harder to release the bow. He became someone else during the battles; fell into a berserker's rage that scared him senseless when it faded from him. Right and wrong had seemed so simple when he left England behind in his quest for glory, but when his dream became reality he felt disillusioned and lost. It was the faces of those he killed that slowly wore him out. Thus when he was sent home to recover from his wound it was not the scar in his side that that needed healing; it was his mind. On the way through Europe he realised that he had been given a second chance and he would not waste it. The berserker's rage that kept him alive through the war became his enemy; a side of himself that he buried deep inside.

It worked. He became Robin Hood and only killed when he was cornered. Yet since the day he heard of Marian's death he felt his art fail him yet again.

Robin had an archer's body, and now he sat crouched down by his quiver and examined every single arrow before he cautiously put it down. It was nothing wrong with them. They were all straight, well-balanced and perfectly fletched. He continued by examining the bow, let his fingers graze the smooth wood that had been worn by his firm grip, and gently pushed the silk string to try the bounce. Only the best materials; the sting was not too tight or too loose and the bow was in perfect condition. He sighed and rubbed his brow wearily, rose and took aim once more.

The shot was disrupted by the sound of branches shifting behind Robin. Instantly he felt himself tense and lowered the bow. For a while he was reluctant to turn, his heart bounced in his chest and there was a tingle of anticipation that refused to be cowed. It was so irrational, yet he still hoped to find Marian behind him. Every time he turned a corner, every morning when he opened his eyes, the image of her was imprinted on his eyes. An apparition that seemed so real up until the point he actually turned around and found that she was not there. He took a deep breath and turned towards the shrubbery where Much was walking towards him with hesitant steps. _Not Marian_. He knew the hope was irrational, every time he knew it to be foolish and vain and that she wouldn't be there. Yet when reality proved him right his heart always sunk down into disappointment all the same. He blinked at Much and forced a smile that was so tense that it hurt.

"Much," he greeted his friend; cheerful and gallant like the man he thought Much wished him to be. _Do not let them see how much it hurts._ "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Nothing," Much responded with a worried frown. "Just—wanted to see how you are holding up. Is it—you know—any easier yet?" Much strolled over and watched the target Robin had set up by the far end of the glen.

Robin felt his lips pull into a wry smile and snorted. How long had it been?_Twenty-seven days_, his mind responded swiftly. _And you knew her to be dead by midday so that makes it twenty-seven days and a quarter of a day_. In what world would less than a month be enough to get over the love of a lifetime? Did they truly expect that of him?

"I mean," Much continued rapidly as if he had read Robin's thoughts. "Not—easier as such. But you know."

"No, Much. I don't know. Why don't you enlighten me?" Robin answered is a silky sarcasm that he cursed himself for as soon as the words escaped him. Grief made him defensive; hard, thorny and callous.

Much looked nervous, let his eyes dart between Robin and the target as he scrambled for a response. Finally he gave up and decided to change the subject.

"Target practicing?" he asked rather unnecessarily.

"Apparently."

"Ah. Well, I for one have never understood why you feel the need for—you know. All that practice," Much started to ramble. "I mean obviously you have to keep it up. But you do know that you are the best archer in England? I mean it seems rather—Well. Unnecessary."

Robin felt the wry smile on his lips pull into a full grin, splitting his face into two halves. There was such an irony that Much would utter these words to him now, such an ultimate irony. He turned to his friend and cocked his eyebrows.

"Look at this Much," he said. "Do not talk before I finish. I will put every arrow in my quiver right in the middle of that target."

Much looked a bit puzzled but nodded in agreement. He had seen Robin target practicing before. His arrows never missed. Still, he would watch Robin shoot a thousand arrows if it humoured his grieving friend.

Robin had an archer's fingers. Now he put them cautiously against the string with an arrow resting in his hand, steadied the bow and lay aim. He did it with every inch of his attention, focused in a way that confused Much. The target was 30 feet away. Robin wouldn't have any problem to set this arrow right square in the middle, and yet he treated it like the challenge of a lifetime. He focused, breathed heavily took one deep breath before his fingers let go of the string.

The arrow never even reached the target. There was a tremble, so swift and short-lived that Much did not see it, but Robin knew it would be fatal for the shot. The force of the string went into Robin's hand and left the arrow flying unsteadily in a wobbling arch before it fell down to the ground. It didn't even bury its head in the soft forest soil; the projectile lay useless and pathetic as if it had simply given up and died.

Robin shot Much a sharp look before he could say anything. Then he took the next arrow out of the quiver, repeated the procedure and missed the target by going nearly two feet too far to the left. Arrow after arrow was fired with Robin's skilful archer's hands and arrow after arrow failed. Some hit the target others missed it with several feet. It was a terrible session. Much could have done better and Robin could feel his friend's gaping mouth and dumbstruck expression even though he kept his eyes on the target. After a while he started to fire the arrows as he used to do in battle; one single movement that came so naturally to him, as if the instinct would succeed where his focus failed. Yet it made no difference.

When every arrow was fired robin put down one end on the bow to the ground and leaned casually against the weapon, watching the pathetic result. He had been here all day shooting arrows, trying to empty his mind of all the buzzing sorrow because he knew that it must be Marian that made his bow tremble. Some shots had succeeded, in average one in ten if he had counted correctly. One in ten. Robin had an archer's fingers; an archer's hands and arms, an archer's body and mind. Yet he couldn't properly fire an arrow.

"Is there something wrong with the bow?" Much finally said, staring at the scattered arrows.

"No," Robin snorted. "Nothing wrong with the bow. Nothing wrong with the arrows or the quiver or the target. There is nothing wrong with my body either. I just can't shoot Much."

"But—did you—Is it—I mean the things you said in the barn, when we had that—whatever Djaq called it?"

"No," Robin sighed. "This is different. When I raged—as long as there was nothing but hate and the heat of the battle my arrows travelled with the same precision as they always have. But when that faded from me I failed. I have been target practicing all day, Much, and it doesn't get any better."

"But surely a day is not enough? It will get better!"

Robin watched the arrows that lay spread around the target and shook his head. Archery had been his sanctuary but a month ago he had lost it. This was worse than the Holy Land. This time he just couldn't find his refuge at all. When his arrows hit the target he didn't feel the rush of satisfaction that he had known all his life; he only felt hollow.

"For twenty-seven days the only arrows I have managed to fire was fired in rage," Robin mumbled. "It will not change."

"Then—what do we do?"

Robin shrugged and started to walk back to the arrows; picking them up one by one and sticking them back down into the quiver for another round. "We do what we do," he responded flatly. "We go back. We fight. We are Robin Hood."

_We are Robin Hood_. Never had those words been uttered with less passion. They were worn out and uninspired; a statement rather than a battle scream. He started to fire arrows again, half-heartedly as if he didn't care that they bounced off in different versions of failure. Why did he bother? He felt the silk string press against his fingers again, heard the twang and thud as one of the arrows managed to reach the target. _I do it because if I do not shoot I do not live_.

One day this bow would be aimed at Guy of Gisborne and Sheriff Vaysey and when that day came he still needed to have an archer's fingers. His heart started to beat faster at the thought, the muscles in his body tensed. After the Holy Land he had feared this feeling, the rush of fury that made his arrows precise and deadly but fired without heart. Now he had to call that berserker's rage forward to be able to shoot at all. His breathing became fast and thick, his mind dulled and focused on the hate that started to grow inside him. _They stole her from me_. In the end Guy and the Sheriff had murdered Marian. They left her on that sinking ship in the middle of the storm, left her behind to perish in the waves. She never stood a chance.

An image of Marian at sea, struggling in the waves as the ship was smashed into rubble, burned inside Robin as he let go of the first arrow. Then Guy smirked at him and dropped the engagement ring into the sand as the second and third arrow left the string. He noticed absently that they landed in the middle of the target, fought for room as the centre got crowded. One by one Robin fired the arrows and he didn't let go of the fury until the quiver was empty. Then he fell down on his knees in the grass; so heavy was the air on his shoulders when the rage faded and left his trembling body exhausted. She had been his strength. Now there was nothing but revenge to keep him struggling; the will to fight was born from grief instead of hope. This was the other side of the coin. When the hate faded there was only pain, and his soul lay exposed to the vultures. He had fired every arrow of his quiver into the imaginary torso of Guy of Gisborn yet it made no difference. Vengeance didn't bring her back; the battles, as they were, would always end unrewarded.

"You—" Much swallowed and watched the target; then glanced down at Robin who sat pressing an arm to his stomach. "You did it Robin. How are you? Robin? You did it; they are right in the middle, every one. You see? You can shoot again. Can't you?"

"Only when—" Robin hindered himself before he finished the sentence:_Only when I hate._ He couldn't tell Much that. "It is so fickle," he said instead. "My archery has never been unpredictable before." His voice was hoarse and strained as he took the bow and used it as support when he rose. "Come," he continued. "You came here to take me back to camp did you not?"

"Yes—As a matter of fact. Supper is ready," Much answered absently. There was a wall between Robin's thoughts and the world and it made him seem so faint, even though he tried to smile and lead his men as if nothing had changed. The problem was that things had changed, and refusing to acknowledge that fact wouldn't make it magically disappear. It couldn't be good for Robin to keep it all inside. How could Much know what damage the loss of Marian did to him if he wouldn't talk about it? He felt like he was loosing his best friend and the only thing he could do was watch it happen. "You—miss her?" he said in a new attempt to open the locked shrine that was Robin's heart.

Robin froze as he bent to tug out another one of the arrows from the target. "I do not whish to talk about it," he mumbled in an annoyed tone. 'Miss her' were such simple words. How could two words be so unbearable and fatal? How could they steal his archery from him? How could they steal his heart? He pressed an arrowhead into his palm so hard it broke through the tough skin, and a single drop of blood moistened the metal. It didn't hurt nearly as much as those two words did. Yes. He did miss her.

---

Every life has periods of calm and periods of storm, and the journey back to England was a period of storm for Marian Fitzwalter. It was not a constant storm, but one that came and went and grew slowly towards its peak. Nearly one month after she had left the village it still hadn't reached its full strength. Balthazar the Merchant had taken her to a small town, situated in a bushy gouge between gray, rocky cliffs. The German crusaders used it as a natural stop on the way to the Holy Land and the local population that lived there thrived off strangers and didn't resent them. There were two inns and twice a week the main street became a buzzing marketplace where merchants shouted out their wares in the language of their choice.

"I wish I knew German," Marian mumbled to Balthazar as they put up the stand for the Wednesday market. They had been in this town for a fortnight and seen crusaders and pilgrims pass through, but so far the retinues refused to take Marian with them. She was English and it had become increasingly apparent that King Richard wasn't particularly popular abroad. She was a woman, a stranger and an Englishman; all these things were burdens for her now. It was a new sensation for Marian to be the subject of national prejudices and the kind of impersonal hate that people can harbour against strangers. The things they called her—well it was all spoken in German or some rare Nordic tongue, but she could hear from their tone that they didn't give her any compliments.

Balthazar put up the sheltering cloth over the stand and secured it to the ground with thick hemp ropes. He puffed and grunted as he worked; his stout body sweaty in a thin linen shirt that was yellow and stiff under the armpits. "No German," he panted. "You should marry nice Greek man."

Marian rolled her eyes and helped him secure the roof. A few early shoppers smirked at the odd couple as they strolled by; he small and fat and she half a head higher and slender like a spinning wheel. Some of them greeted Balthazar and he wheezed a jovial response. Marian kept herself turned away, intensely occupied with the stall that had to be prepared before the first wave of customers arrived. Balthazar had a way to presenting her to his bachelor friends that made her feel a little bit like one of his wares. Even though she knew he did it from tenderness and not out of malice it made her feel uncomfortable. She would eventually refuse any offer if it came to that and she didn't wish to disappoint him. How could it be that her father was dead but men still did their best to marry her off!?

"I cannot marry a Greek man," she sighed. "I need to get home—I do not belong here."

"You very pretty. I will get you good husband. Young and rich, no bad second son. First son, only the best for my girl, ey?" Balthazar laughed and straightened up, splashed some water in his face and rubbed aromatic herbs against the shirt to dampen the smell of sweat. Then he pulled a colourful tunic over his head and pinned a broach to the collar. Marian frowned as she watched him and absently arranged the items on the stall. How fast life became a habit. A month she lived with this man and already there were routines. If she gave it time, learned the language better than the few words she had snapped up—well. She could have a family and friends here; it was not a bad place. A practical woman would take this offer of a new life like the blessing that it was. Yet the idea of getting married to a man, be it a Greek man or even a crusader, made her feel sick. It was not that she resented the dark people of this country but getting married was a point of no return. It was the same as accepting that Robin would never be hers, and however faint her hope was she could not bare giving it up and live her life not ever knowing. What if he was waiting for her?

The thought of Robin sent a shudder down Marian's spine and she leaned on the stall to take a deep breath. She dreamt of him during the nights, woke up longing for his touch and bit down into the pillow in a silent cry; screamed and screamed until her face was red and she had to gasp for air. What if this impossible journey ended in nothing but loneliness? What if she struggled to get home only to find that nothing awaited her there?

Yet then again, she had listened to logic all her life but where had that brought her? It was time her heart did the talking for once; it may be a foolish heart but it was beating for Robin and Nottingham. The northern road was the only one that felt worth walking.

"I will not marry," she mumbled stubbornly as she fixed the last finishing touches to the stall. "I know it would be wise to stay—But a pretty dress that doesn't fit is still no use, is it? I do not belong here—"

"But no one takes you," Balthazar sighed. "No put the bracelets over there—"

"The bracelets are better over here with the cloth. If a woman comes for the cloth she might spot the bracelets—" Marian insisted. "I now that no one takes me. It is because I am English I am sure of it—"

"Maybe we tell them you French? Bracelets go with trinkets, look, this is how I always do, yes!"

"It is better this way," Marian tugged the silver bracelets from Balthazar's hand and stubbornly arranged them next to the cloth. He exclaimed something in Greek and gave in to her will, his arms flew out in a resigned gesture that reminded Marian of Allan. "No not French," she mumbled. "They might hear that my accent is northern, it will do me no good—I really wish I could speak German!" She bit her lip as she contemplated the situation. "Maybe we could say that I am mute?" she finally said. "A mute woman who was—washed ashore. You found me and I have not spoken a word since. Will that work?"

Balthazar shrugged. "Work—work not. How do I know? I'm just the merchant yes?"

"A mute woman is harmless," Marian continued. "And you can sell anything. Surely you can sell a dumb castaway?"

"Ah you flatter!" the merchant laughed. "Maybe I can try."

Marian smiled tenderly and bent down to give the fat little man a peck on his cheek. "Thank you--" she murmured, with hope fluttering like a trapped butterfly in her chest.

"Yes, yes. Still think it better you marry a nice Greek man. Stubborn woman—"

The marketplace filled with people and Marian scanned the crowd after crusaders or pilgrims. Finally her eye caught two men dressed in white cloaks with the cross like an open wound across the white cloth. She watched them cautiously. One of them was muscular with gray streaks in the dark hair and an old scar that cut like a gouge across his cheek; his features grim and bitter but neat in a way that made her think he was a vain man. His companion was younger; his hair sun bleached into a nuance several tones lighter than his skin, his body lanky and the back a bit hunched. He had nearly white eyebrows that gave the icy blue eyes a naked appearance and Marian felt a shudder run down her spine. There was something about him; his eyes stared rather than watched, just a little bit too wide and blue, and the mouth was pressed together to a tense line of discontent.

The two crusaders walked closer ad she could hear the dark man talk in German. She noticed that the blonde man spoke very rarely, only shot in a word here and there and kept moving his left hand to the rosary that hung around his neck. _Horrible hands_, she thought. Long, spiderlike fingers that was impossible to look away from. They were at the stall beside Balthazar's now and shifted through the items. The dark man treated them roughly, picked them up and tossed them down again almost savagely and every now and then picking one up to spit some scornful comments at it. The light man was different; touched the things with his long fingers—

Marian stared.

No! It could not be?! She swallowed and turned away, drawing a sharp breath before she moved her eyes to his right hand again. That ring! Her heart bounced against her chest as she studied the only piece of adornment, save the rosary, that the blonde man carried. Even on this distance she recognised Vaysey's seal.

"Oh good lord!" she breathed and grabbed on to Balthazar's arm.

"What!?" the merchant exclaimed and met her wildly staring eyes. "You problem?"

"No," she drew a trembling breath and lowered her voice to a whisper. "The crusaders in the next stall—I need to leave with them! It is important—do you understand? We do the mute story now- they have not heard me speak. Please!"

"Now? Those men?" Balthazar gave the two men a sceptical look. "I do not like, we do better than them!"

"No, I—I need them—hush they are coming!"

Marian drew another shivering breath and lowered her eyes to the wares. The dark man started to shift through them and she noticed that he wore Vaysey's seal as well. _Oh good God!_ It could not be good that Vaysey had recruited German crusaders! Why would he need them?! Balthazar was talking German now, first generally about the wares and then the attention was shifted to her. She felt the eyes of the blonde man fall on her, unyielding and staring with pupils that were tiny spots surrounded by a watery blue colour. The dark man's eyes were different. He looked her up and down as if he was merely studying a pound of meat or a few feet of silken cloth. Suddenly he reached out a hand to grip around her chin, tilting her head so that she faced him. His fingers were coarse against cheek, his touch rough, and she got a feeling that he might have been 'buying' people before. Finally he grunted and banged his palm against the stall as if closing a deal; gesturing for her to come forward. She lowered her head again and let the dark man study her, tugging and squeezing her limbs until the blonde man said a few snappy words in German. The dark man grunted and moved away from her.

"Fräulein, mein Name ist Bruder Lukas," the blonde man presented himself, saying the name twice to get the point across. _Bruder_, Marian repeated to herself. That meant that he had taken the cloth and belonged to some order, by the look of it most likely the Knights Templar. Then he nodded at his friend and added: "Dies ist Ritter Johann. Du arbeitest ab jetzt für uns. Hast du verstanden? Hm?" Marian frowned slightly. There were too many words in this strange hard tongue! What was he saying? Bruder Lukas studied her for any sign of understanding, and then repeated the last line in a number of languages. She could make out Latin, French and Greek, and finally he spat the words out a bit mockingly in English. Marian's native tongue was not one that people used on the continent, and it surprised her that he could speak it at all. She chewed on her lip and gave him half a nod, vague enough not to give away which of the languages she understood. _You work for us now. Do you understand?_ Yes, that much she understood. But why or where they would take her, or even what kind of work they expected her to do for them, was still in a blur. The blonde man seemed like a pious soul, so they probably took her with them as a servant and nothing that would jeopardise her honour. The thought made her feel sick, as if she only now realised that she had been half a step from falling down a ravine. She had not even considered that option before, but it was a fact that they might just as well have taken her for a prostitute.

Marian gave the dark man a glance that she hoped looked coy even though she was tense with anxious curiosity. He had been presented as Ritter Johann. A 'Ritter' was a knight if she remembered correctly. But why were these people wearing Vaysey's seal?! She bit down the fear that seemed to clog her throat and focused on her role. She was a castaway; a mute and probably slightly backward girl of unknown origin, meek and bashful. As she moved away with the two German men she allowed herself a final glance at Balthazar the Merchant and formed a silent 'thank you' with her lips. He seemed sad to let her go, his eyes worried and the usually so jolly features distressed. Marian felt her lip tremble as she turned her face forward again, sensing the cold loneliness of isolation close around her. It might be a long, long time until she saw a friendly face again.

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**NEXT: Things happen in some sort of sequential order, after which other things occur, some of which may be of some importance.**


	8. Chapter 7: Power

**So people, here comes chapter 7. It is a Guy chapter, plain and simple. It also introduces two oc:s one of them will be important later on. **

**Now, I find Guy extremely challenging to write, so comments are very much welcome--**

**Charlemagne: More Guy in this chapter. Enjoy. ;)  
Gwenwhyfar: lol, why thank you! Accents are tricky stuff, different languages are even worse, yet there seems to be an abundance of different nationalities in this fic--  
LadyElsii: Awww thank you! There will be more about Marian's adventures later on, there is just so many characters to keep track of here--  
DeanParker: Yup, she is going home :D  
Gatewatcher: Mazza can take care of herself. Or can she? Dum-du-du-duum.  
Miravisu: There will be lots more. I never start a story that I don't finish.  
Loonylover: Wow, I made you emotional. Well Robin will be fine, don't worry. Think about how happy he will be when he realises that Marian is alive!!!  
MonthyPythonFan: Yeah I was heartbroken too! That is what this story is all about, mending broken hearts. My broken heart actually, I just invite you all for the ride. ;) **

**Comments are love. Thank you my darlings.  
Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Power**

_In which there is way too much Guy._

"_You gave me nothing, now it is all I got." /U2_

London, 1171

_The room was small and draughty, over furnished with old-fashioned items that seemed like ghosts of better times; a steady bed with frayed crimson curtains; worn out tables and chairs that stood useless against the wall; an old tapestry with a hunting scene that had been bleached by the sun and seemed pale and unreal. Once upon a time all these things had decorated a fine old manor, now they were nothing but grim reminders of the Gisbourne shame; a noble family that rented an old house next to commoners. _

_Lady Gisbourne stood by the bed, her head bent down and her scraggy hands trembling in the cold room. She was a meek woman, the eyes looked slightly forlorn and she moved cautiously and crouched like a subdued dog that feared a beating. Her hands ached too much to be sewing these days, or so she claimed, yet the few remaining servants speculated that her illness was in her head and not in her hands. Her husband was too unwell to raise a hand to her now, but instead of finding strength in his weakening she seemed to fade away by his sickbed. Sometimes she would simply stand, gazing into the wall or out a window, while she twisted and rubbed the trembling hands. Now she turned her slim neck towards the door as it creaked open to reveal her only son. Guy was a sombre fourteen year old, serious and awkward in the company of his peers but already ruthless to those inferior to him. He carried his father's shame on his shoulders with all the dignity he could master, and when he was called to his father's side this day he had known that it was to say farewell yet he never shed a tear. Lady Gisbourne scurried over the floor and gave Guy's shoulder a light squeeze when she passed. 'Don't tire your father Guy,' she whispered when she brushed by him and ended the encounter with a careful pat on the boy's neck, before she disappeared and closed the door behind him. _

_Guy shook his shoulder when his mother left, as if the shadow of her touch itched and irritated him, and let his eyes rest on the shape in the bed. Sir Godric of Gisbourne had been a big, intimidating man once upon a time, but now he looked like a frail shell of his former self. He lay embedded in masses of old sheets that had seen better days, and his hair was sticky against the sweaty brow. The entire room smelled of sickness, body odours mixed up with different remedies, expensive but useless. There was a prolonged wheezing sound as the broad chest raised in a deep breath and he waved his hand at Guy. _

"_Son," came the deep raspy voice. "Come here." _

_Guy walked cautiously over the creaking floor and noted that there was so much dust in the air that it looked like a fog hung over the furniture. The boy felt a sudden pang of embarrassment when he watched the degrading setting for his father's final days. A Gisbourne shouldn't die like this. A grand man like Sir Godric, born of privilege into an ancient family, shouldn't end his life in a room like this. _

"_Guy," Sir Godric croaked. "Look around—this is what is left of Gisbourne; some old scraps and you." There came a hoarse laughter from the sick man as he watched the boy that stood so stiff by the bedside. "Look at you—you look like a weasel," he snorted. "And you don't make friends easily do you? Always on your own, moping around the house—the only skirts you ever lift belong to cheap sleepers. That is no life for a Gisbourne—" he frowned and took on an air of disappointment that Guy recognised all too well. "You have your mother in you—her weakness. But you are my son and I have arranged for you to get a position when I am gone. Here in London at first, close to the royal court." he coughed and Guy bit his lip while he tried to subdue the rush of emotions. _

"_Where am I going father?" he asked cautiously. "What kind of—'position'?"_

"_The best I can do!" Sir Godric sneered. "You better be grateful. I am dying and we have—we have nothing. There is nothing but—scraps and junk left. Look at this! The Gisbourne name is disgraced. There lives a butcher next door! A butcher!" he took another wheezing breath and lowered his voice. "Now you listen to me Guy. You can work yourself up in the world. You can restore our name, if you play your cards right. Do you have it in you? Your mother," he spat out the last word almost mockingly, "will take to a convent so you need not bother with her. That old crone will never get remarried the state she is in. She was a fine lady once, believe it or not. A nose like a hawk but good hands—good hands—"_

_He started to cough violently, the face became red against the white pillow and his chest bobbed up and down in ripping spasms. _

"_Father?" Guy mumbled. "Do you—need something?"_

"_I need time!" sir Godric sneered. "But God is greedy with time, we only get—a few measly years." He took a deep breath that sounded strained and painful and waved his hand dismissively towards Guy. "Get out of here! I want peace. Send in your mother - tell her I need more wine. Wait!"_

_Guy stopped half-way to the door and turned with a courteous little bow. _

"_All you got is yourself, Guy," Sir Godric scoffed. "Never forget that you're a Gisbourne. Never forget—"_

"_I will not," Guy answered in a stern voice. "I am a Gisbourne, I will not forget it." _

_He bowed again and left his father to his coughs and wheezing breaths. These were the last words he ever got from Sir Godric of Gisbourne, and Guy made sure to carry them with him year after year. _

Nottingham, winter 1192

"Feel that Gisbourne?" Vaysey said and threw out his little arms as if he tried to fondle the castle yard.

"What?" Guy sighed. It smelled of manure more than anything, an undercurrent of damp wood and smoke from the town. England was soggy and gray, the wood in the castle's sheds was rotting and the horses' hay carried a scent of mould.

"That is the smell of the future," the sheriff continued. "This, my friend, this is English soil. The very same soil that King Richard chose to abandon for the sand of the Holy Land." The sheriff laughed a little. "Home sweet home, hm? Now, now, Gizzy, will you stop moping!? This is good! Cheer up."

"We lost, sir" Guy mumbled and took in the scenery. This place was filled with Marian. Everything around him seemed to echo her; all the scenes of her naïve betrayal that almost became Guy's downfall.

Guy had followed Sheriff Vaysey, a man he despised and suddenly a man who seemed to take up his entire life. He may hate the sheriff but he needed him, and Guy was a man who understood those human relations where one was superior to the other much better than those where you acted on equal terms. He would fall if Vaysey fell, they won and lost together. That had seemed a fine deal all those years back when they became acquainted with each other. Guy's goals in life had been all about restoring his name and Vaysey was the best ally he could make. They both craved power and they both accepted that power had to be taken, if it wasn't granted to them willingly. When had Guy's goals been altered? Love had never been high on the agenda, but the Gisbournes were a greedy family. Years of having nothing made him crave everything, love, pride, fortune and position. He knew love and pride to be secondary; they could not be earned until the more basic needs were fulfilled. Yet when love finally came it somehow took over. _You have your mother in you—her weakness._

Guy flinched as he realised that the sheriff still was speaking to him, and made some humming noises in agreement to what seemed to be some kind of question.

"Good, yes I think so too," Vaysey responded cheerfully.

"Excuse me?" Guy mumbled.

"Gisbourne! Have you been listening to anything I have been saying?!"

"I'm sorry sir, I must have been distracted. It has been a long day."

"We will have a feast to celebrate out victorious return," the sheriff sighed. "Pay attention Gizzy, you're like a love struck milkmaid who has lost her udder."

"We lost, sir," Guy said again. "Why would we celebrate?"

"But do the people know that we lost? A clue: no. I intend to keep it like that. Besides, the king will never return, so a way we have won, hm? It is just a matter of time."

Guy frowned and watched the sheriff with a puzzled expression. "What do you mean?"

"Come, come, Guy, you really need to start using that other brain of yours. Hm? The one you have on top of your throat, rather than the one you have tucked in behind that sock—" The sheriff lowered his eyes to about waist height on Guy and cocked his eyebrows. "Obviously," he continued. "I wouldn't leave the Holy Land without securing the backup plan."

"We had a backup plan my lord?" Guy took a deep breath and tried to restrain the rush of anger. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Well, statistically speaking you do have a history of failure Gizzy. I wouldn't want you to spoil this trip for us. Besides, you never bothered to ask." The sheriff laughed a little and drummed his fingers to the castle wall. "Good steady building this. Would stand well in case of an invasion I think. Almost a shame we never get to use it now—"

"What was the backup plan?" Guy insisted.

"Ah, yes—" the sheriff exclaimed. "It's quite ingenious actually. You see the king has friends in France. So I was thinking—what if he doesn't get to travel across France at all? What if his boat is," Vaysey waved a hand and let his eyes dart pensively to the sky. "Let's say mysteriously diverted and subsequently forced to land the king in—oh I don't know—Central Europe? What if he is forced to travel across Austria and Germany, hm? He has no friends there."

Guy stared at the cheerful little man and gave out a sceptical laughter. "And you have arranged this?"

"I made some friends down in the Holy Land and on the way there and back. You didn't notice? No, of course you didn't—you never notice anything when there is a nice pair of blue eyes to distract you. Europe is a trap, Gisbourne, and as soon as the king leaves his war behind the trap will—snap. Heh—this is good. I like it—"

"And you trust it will work, sir?"

"Hm? Oh yes. No Robin Hood to mess it up, no woman leper—Yes, it will work. You know what our problem has been Gisbourne? Hm? No of course you don't. You see Hood is fighting _us_. He can't leave us unguarded because—well that would be a betrayal to his precious peasants wouldn't it? But now we are here, and that means that Hood will be far from Richard Coeur de Lion once the snare closes around his royal paws." The sheriff sucked on his teeth pensively and gave out a short laughter. "Kings are useless on their own," he concluded. "They're a bit like women really—Separate them from their enslaved guardians and they are nothing. Reminds a bit of Lady Marian doesn't it? You let go of her hand and she sunk like a stone—heh. Talking about that, it was a bit surprising I think. I always thought a witch would float, hm? Seems she was a mere mortal after all, no spell power etcetera. It was all in your head Gisbourne, all in your head—"

"Excuse me Sir," Gisbourne hissed and pushed down the rush of emotions. "It has been a long day and I would like to leave for Locksley before dark."

"Yes, yes why not. Go tend to your garden, Gizzy," Vaysey answered and rubbed his hands together before he scurried up the castle stairs. He stopped in the entrance to the grim building and turned one final time with his arms spread out towards the town. "Congratulations Nottingham!" He exclaimed cheerfully. "Your sheriff is back!"

---

Guy moved his hand to his brow and rubbed it wearily. This had been a long day; any day in the sheriff's company was long and on the trip to the Holy Land and back there had been no getting away from the little man. Guy took a deep breath and let it out in a dejected sigh, counting to ten while he gathered his thoughts. It was starting to get cold all the way through the days already and his breaths turned into smoke clouds that quickly dispersed into the chilly air.

He let his eyes dart around the castle yard until they fell on a couple by the gates; a guard and a woman that leaned on each other and giggled in the manner of young lovers. Guy could vaguely recognise this soldier as one on the most recent recruits. He had a round, childlike face, completely lacking any memorable traits, and he held the spear in an awkward way - as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. Guy let his eyes slide over to the woman by his side. Her hair had a kind of dull brown colour and consisted of a nest of frizzy curls that formed a halo around her face, refusing to stay tucked in under the head cloth. Her features weren't pretty but they had character; she had a proud, straight nose that gave her a noble profile; the cheekbones and jaw were sharp and the little mouth determined.

It was a foolish guard to have a woman visiting him on his job; as the sheriff's sergeant Guy could hardly let such a thing pass. He felt the old familiar tug of loneliness in his stomach, echoing the terrifying void that he had known all his life, as he watched the couple. They were such a natural pair, she laughed and he blushed, she fussed and arranged his armour and he let himself be pampered with. Then she reached up to give his round cheek a kiss and Guy turned away. He had seen scenes like this one before, and he never managed to quite understand them. How could it be so natural to them when it was so hard for him? People were a mystery, a riddle that he never quite managed to solve. It was easy to lash out and use force, fill the void with anger and hate. In time he had gotten so used to the rage that he felt lost without it. In many ways Guy was still the child who broke his toys when he didn't understand how they worked.

Guy inhaled through his nose and let the fury fill the void, developed an irrational hate for the happy couple as he marched towards them. In this situation his power was absolute, he could destroy this mans life as easily as he knocked the top off an egg. The feeling was invigorating, exciting, rousing—it rushed through his veins and made a smile graze his lips.

"You!" he shouted as he came up to the guard. The atmosphere between the couple changed instantly; he straightened his back and shuffled the woman away from him, and she gave Guy a bold look before she turned and walked off.

"Sir," the guard answered, lingering on the 's' in a way that made Guy realise he had a problem with stuttering.

"Your name?"

"Tom-Thomas B-b-b—" the guard took a deep trembling breath and Guy cocked his eyebrow while he waited for him to get through the name. "B-Baker, Sir. Thomas Baker," the guard finally finished. "Sorry for my wife Melinda."

"You wife," Guy scoffed, "should not have been here. It is a security issue and the sheriff looks upon it very gravely. Do you understand?"

"Y—y—"

"Just nod, that will be quite enough," Guy sighed. "Stutter when you are nervous do you?"

Thomas nodded and swallowed hard.

"Well, you work for free today Thomas," Guy smirked and started to tug his gloves absently. "I'm showing mercy since it is your first offence. The sheriff got a feast planned a fortnight from this day, to celebrate his glorious return. I'll have you positioned by my side, that way I can—evaluate your work properly."

Thomas nodded again and shifted his weight to the other foot. Up front it struck Guy that his face looked flat and broad, as if the midwife had dropped him with the nose down and it never quite managed to recover. How did this pathetic, stuttering fool find love? The resentment grew in Guy's chest; he lashed out with his hand and struck the guard hard across the cheek.

"So that you remember," he hissed. "Now fetch my horse! You might as well make yourself useful now that you work for nothing."

---

Guy frowned as he spurred his horse into a short gallop; rushing it through the darkening forest that surrounded the path to Locksley. For months he had craved solitude, but now that he had found it he realised that it was filled with ghosts. If the world had made any sense Guy should be beaming now that Robin Hood was cracked open and left to slowly bleed out. Yet in his mind he didn't see the broken face of his archenemy. Instead he saw Robin the way he used to be, swaggering over the floor with that infuriating grin that had people eating out of his hand like little birds. Marian had loved that boy all along, and now Guy was riding through Robin's forest. The months that had passed hadn't changed a thing. Every memory seemed to sting and burn, and returning to England only brought them closer to the surface. How had he missed that little smile that grazed Marian's lips every time she was faced with Robin? _Her heart belongs to another. _Those words scorned him now, whispered behind his back and laughed at him in open mockery. Time and again he had been made to look like a fool! How long had Robin and Marian shared a forest bed? Did they rest naked among the leaves and giggle over Guy's futile advances?

The thoughts pounded against Guy's brow in throbbing thuds as he pressed his legs to the horse. _Faster, you dumb animal. Faster you fat old mare! _ His heart and the horse's hooves raced each other along the northern road and the brisk autumn air tugged the oily strands of black hair on his head. Perhaps he could outrun these haunting thoughts if he only moved faster! He pressed his eyes together and shouted at the horse; _be gone you ghosts and demons that plague me!_ _Run you stupid horse!_ It was a brown mare, clumsy and small compared to the steeds he usually rode, and her pathetic attempts to run faster made her resemble hunted prey. She was terrified. The neck was tense and she threw the sweaty head wildly from side to side.

All the people of the past marched through Guy's mind. First Marian, then his father and the shadow that he had called 'mother', yet had learned to scorn before he could walk. _Always remember that you are a Gisbourne. _Guy gave out a snorting laughter that was drowned by the mare's hooves, which threw up little turfs of forest soil by the panicking run. How could he ever have forgotten that? His entire life had been dictated by his name. Guy the Landless who was the laughing stock of the court and the gentry, Sir Guy of Where? He had been given nothing in life except that name, and with that name he had made himself into someone. No one was laughing now. Locksley would be his Gisbourne and when the sheriff passed on it was Guy who stood next in line.

Power, Guy thought as the horse stared to stagger and refused his increasingly violent commands. No buzz, be it women or gambling or drunkenness, could quite compare to the surging euphoria of power. It would be his goal to be on top of the ladder, undefeated because all opposition was beneath him. The man who wrote into the Holy Book that the meek shall inherit the earth had been a fool; this world did not reward meekness. It was a world for the strong. People could be forced into submission by the power of threats and force and money. It made sense to make yourself meek if it served a purpose, but to willingly give your integrity to a woman had been madness. When did weakness become a criterion for humanity? No, it was power and crude force that won wars and restored families' honour. In time the guilt would fade with the humiliation and disgrace, and the ghost of Marian would leave his dreams alone. Eventually his priorities would change back to what they had always been; power, fortune and the pride his father had lost all those years ago. The horse walked slowly the last bit through the forest and then the trees opened up to the white buildings of Locksley manor. Guy stopped for a while and watched the serene village where smoke from the chimneys striped the dusky sky. This was his home. At least he would not die a pauper.

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**NEXT: The outlaws return to the forest and find themselves in unexpected company, and Will and Djaq are having trouble in paradise.**


	9. Chapter 8: Homecoming

**:snibbles: Has all my readers abandoned me b/c I wrote a Guy chapter? I hope some still remain because there is still lots more to come in this story (um more of the outlaws that is, and Marian, and the king, and the bad guys)**

**Anyway, comments are love.  
Miravisu: For a time, that felt like an eternity, yours was the only comment on this chapter. I savored it immensely. I actually like writing Guy backstory, but I'm not so fond of writing Guy/Marian.  
Gatewatcher: And now they return. :D Although there is more scenes in the camp in the next chapter.  
LoonyLover: I LOVE you for writing that comment! I really needed encouragement on this chapter. lol, there is a certain Snape-like quality to Guy actually-- I think the challenge of writing Guy is to balance his different sides well, not romantisize him but to still show that is has more depth than the sheriff. (Although the sheriff is really fun to write lol)  
MontyPythonFan: Patience, my dear. There will be reunion eventually. :D No one expects the Spanish Inquisition, you know.**

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**Chapter 8: Homecoming**

_-In which the flavour of the season is scarlet and bitter_

Djaq told Will that staying behind in the Holy Land was a mistake, long before she dared to admit to herself that is was true. The very same day that the outlaws left her and Will in Basram's house, his arm started to feel alien around her waist. It wasn't exactly his fault; it never felt unpleasant or unwanted to have him near and she never doubted that she loved him, his touch just seemed misplaced. Will seemed misplaced. She ignored the uneasy feeling that first day; blamed it on nerves and gave Will a tender kiss that lingered on behind a smile. There was a buzz in her chest, her mind felt light and woozy as he kissed her back, yet the unsettling feeling didn't go away. Instead it seemed to get amplified with every day that passed.

Everything in Basram's house was eerily familiar to Djaq, as if she had somehow been plunged back in time, but instead of making her feel at home it distressed her. The smooth, white walls; the flourish patterns that decorated the furniture; the heavy silk drapes; the yard with the tough, silvery vegetation; the city's angular silhouette from the flat roof. When England was cold and the nights long she had called forth this place from her memories. Now she was here, she walked through history as if it was a museum where her life lay displayed before her. She had visited here often in her youth; sitting crouched around the plates and bowls filled with colourful dishes while her family talked rapidly in Arabic. The sentences of their discussions had broken into each other - shrill female voices mixing with the men's darker ones - so that it seemed like the stitches of a chaotic weave. The Saracen culture was animated and heated like the country, and as a Saracen woman far away from her roots she had always carried a bit of this place inside her. Yet somehow she had felt more Saracen in England then she did now, when she was back here. She had not realised how much she had changed during the years away, and having Will by her side did not help.

It is not easy to live your dream and find out that you are unhappy, and thus Djaq kept making excuses. As time went by she became increasingly annoyed with Will, irrationally angry and upset over tiny details, started to crave solitude and back away from his advances. Yet she kept telling herself that it was the heat; that couples fight; that it would be better as soon as Will learned Arabic—

Arabic. That was one of the problems. Will was terrible at learning Arabic, he just didn't try. He would laugh at her and say that he wasn't a book person and he had everything he needed right here. Djaq. All he needed was his Djaq. He followed her around like a puppy, watching her work with the birds and making her feel guilty every time she talked Arabic to someone and his face got that forlorn expression._What was it about Djaq? What did you say? What was so funny?_ She sighed and translated it as well as she could until she snapped and started shouting at him. Day after day; no happy ending but a million little quarrels followed by desperate kisses as the evening fell. They needed to persuade themselves that they were happy, but Djaq kept feeling miserable.

"You need to learn Arabic, Will!" Djaq exclaimed one especially hot day nearly a month after the outlaws had left. She was walking around the big, open room where the birds sat perched up in their cages, and there was a choir of soft cooing noises surrounding her. Usually the pigeons calmed her; the flapping wings, the purrs and chirps as they spoke to each other. Now all she could think about was Will's steps that remained half a beat behind hers.

"I'm not good at those kinds of things," Will answered, his face puzzled and meek. He was always like that when she argued with him. He didn't bite back, just made himself soft and subdued, and it irritated her immensely. "I can't even read much in English, and this is so different. I try, Djaq—"

"And you can't call me Djaq," she snapped. "I'm Safiya here. You have to learn!"

"But we came here to be together. That is what matters, isn't it? That we are together?" He had stopped and stood on the floor, one hand resting on his belt where his axe used to be. He didn't carry it around now; it made the servants uneasy to have an armed Christian in the house, but Djaq could tell that he missed it. He was happy to be with her but surely he wasn't happy here, he couldn't be! How could anyone be happy lurking around the house all day like some sort of pet? The birds were freer than he was, Djaq thought as she turned her back to him and reached in to a cage to cup her hands around a gray pigeon.

"I cannot be everything for you!" she exclaimed, her face half-turned to him so that he could see her profile but not meet her look; her eye almost black under the dark lashes. "You follow me around like a—a—a puppy. I don't need a dog, Will. I need a husband."

"Is that a marriage proposal?" Will smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. Djaq sighed and shrugged it off, focusing on the bird that was cradled in her hands. She could feel the tiny, fluttering hart beating against her palm and realised that she shivered just like that; trapped by the situation. She felt furious with Will and yet he never did anything to deserve it.

"You know full well we cannot marry," she answered. "Not until you learn Arabic, learn the Koran, become a Muslim and get a reputation in this town. They think of you like my English slave, no one respects you!" Djaq bit her lip. It wasn't exactly true; 'slave' was not the word they used to describe him. She had chosen it because it felt slightly less harsh than their mockeries did. _Safiya got an English wife_, the community laughed and scorned behind the white walls, _he cannot cook but he got pretty eyes_.

Djaq frowned and gave out a trembling whistle at the bird, saw it cock the little head and respond with a series of coos. Will did have pretty eyes; at least that was true. They were warm and soft - kind eyes to mirror his gentle soul – immensely intelligent compared to the birds' beady eyes. Djaq pulled her lips into a sad little half-smile and stroked the pigeon's soft chest feathers with her thumb. She had expected that to be enough, just knowing that she loved him and that he loved her, and she would be free from all bonds. Love often fools people like that; Cupid had more hubris than he had arrows to cover for it. "You follow me around all the time—do you not wish for a life of your own?" Djaq mumbled, still without looking at Will.

"I have a life. It is here with you," he insisted. "I study Arabic—I listen when your uncle tell me about the Koran."

Djaq shut her eyes and restrained the sudden rush of anger, forcing herself not to crush the pigeon's hollow bones with her hands. This was so frustrating! Did he not see that this wasn't working?! As if it wasn't enough that his Arabic was appalling, he avoided the topic of the Koran and his studies to be a Muslim. Djaq wondered if she should push him on that instead since it was another one of their problems. If Will was ever to be accepted here he had to convert, but even though he listened to Basram when he taught him about Islam, he didn't seem all that devoted. She would have to talk to him about that as well, but this was not the right time.

To be fair they did have good times; in the cool evenings when they sat out on the yard, talking tenderly about their common interests. Funny thing was; all they seemed to wish to talk about was memories from England. They spoke of Sherwood, the outlaws, the sheriff's schemes and Robin's grief. They laughed so much that they almost cried when they recalled some funny incident with Allan or Much, and he comforted her when she felt sad about Robin's loss. It was the shock and grief from Marian's death that made them stay here in the first place, and they both knew it. To see Robin broken like that forced them to rethink their priorities. Surely it had been right - so why did it feel so wrong?

"Perhaps we should not have stayed here if you will not learn," Djaq mumbled, knowing that the words would hurt Will, but unable to stop herself. She needed a reaction from him desperately, but he never shouted back. Not even to these words, the worst she could think of, provoked a reaction from him. She had said it before as a last resort in their arguments, and thus she knew his reaction even before she finished the sentence. He was always considerate, did exactly what she told him, but it just wasn't enough! She didn't want him to always agree! _Scream at me Will! Tell me you hate it here! Tell me you miss Allan and Robin and Little John and Much! Tell me you wish you could go back to Luke!_

"I do learn!" Will responded in a soft voice, reasoning with her rather than arguing. "Perhaps I should leave you alone for a while—"

"Perhaps you should!" she snapped and pushed the bird to her chest. Funny that it should be easier to be tender towards something like a bird, that didn't care and wouldn't love you back, than to be tender towards the man your heart craved. The thought took her by surprise because it was true, yet she hadn't realised it. She didn't like him touching her any longer. It was fine when they were in peril and close to death but now it seemed so doomed. Obviously it felt good, but there was just so much under the surface that she couldn't deal with—too many conflicting emotions. Djaq pushed her lips together and felt Will's wounded look burn her neck, his breathing fast and trembling in the tense silence.

"I am sorry Will," she said and turned around, still holding the pigeon like a wall between them. "I am just tired. There is a lot for me to learn with the birds—I need to be alone. You should do something. Didn't Basram say that he had some work for you?"

Then the air between them changed within a blink of an eye. That exact moment was the first turning point; a fork in the road brought forward by the most subtle emotional outbursts. Will flinched at her words, and right then Djaq realised, actually realised, that it might in fact be true that staying here had been a mistake. It wasn't just in her head, or something she said to provoke Will. For a brief moment something like resentment or disappointment walked over Will's face; swift like a shadow appearing when a light flashes by. Djaq frowned. Did she imagine it? No, it was still there, it hung in the air between them even though Will smiled.

"Some stools to mend," he answered. "I am done already. It was easy. But I'll go find something else—practise my Arabic perhaps."

Djaq gave him a sad smile and nodded, reaching up to give his cheek a swift kiss. The anger was gone as fast as it had flared up, and now there was nothing but a hollow desolation in her chest. Will was a carpenter, his skill with wood was his pride and joy, and here all he was allowed to do was mend simple furniture. It was beneath him and he felt it. He was always meek and smiling but he wasn't happy here. None of them were happy.

As Djaq watched Will walk away the insight burned inside her; terrifying, foul and impossible to shrug off. She turned and put the pigeon back into his cage, her steps finally without Will's feet forming a disharmonic echo. The solitude felt good, less stressful, but now the frustration had changed into fear. She leaned her head against the cage and took a shivering breath, the pigeon giving out a co-coo that sounded loud and sharp so close to her ear. If things did not change soon the love between her and Will would die. In spite of the world's all bards and troubadours, Djaq knew that even love has got its limits.

---

They had been silent since they arrived in Sherwood. To be honest Robin had been mostly silent since Portsmouth, but as they closed in on the forest even Much's rambling had gradually trailed off into the occasional, incoherent mumble. It was the respectful kind of silence that one falls into on a funeral; tense and stuffed with unsaid words. As Little John thought back on it later that night it would occur to him that, if you thought about it, the silence had been almost ear-splittingly loud. They didn't talk but the looks that passed between them just wouldn't shut up.

"_How is he?"_ Allan asked with a raised eyebrow and a flickering glance at Robin's slightly crouched back. John shrugged and Much gave the outlaws' leader a worried look. He didn't seem well but what had they expected? Even John could feel the shadows; memories that walked by their side like mute ghosts. It wasn't just that Marian had been alive in this forest, that she had smiled and walked by their side on these very same roads, that hurt. The last time they were here they had believed in a future, all of them, and this time their goal was simply an ending. Only that. No new beginning, no life after the war. The forest seemed filled with disappointment, shreds of innocent hope that still lingered in the treetops and mocked them as they passed by. Every turn in the road was familiar yet alien in the same time. It was the same rocks and tree trunks but they looked upon them differently.

John sighed and followed Robin up a slope. It was painful for such a strong man to admit but his age and all the years in the forest was starting to catch up with him. He felt tired. Sometimes his limbs hurt so much at the end of the day that he found himself awake through half the night, in spite of feeling exhausted. Not that he told anyone about it. These youngsters had enough trouble as it was, without worrying over an old man. Yet, it occurred to him from time to time, sometimes Robin looked even older. He didn't have any gray hairs but he wore the entire world on his slim shoulders, and that was the kind of thing that aged a man. He didn't sleep well either. John could hear him toss and turn and then rise only to pace restlessly around the camp with the bow in his hand. They all slept until late in the mornings because that was the only time when everyone actually slept. Robin's nightmares had faded by then and given way to a happy smile that made it impossible to wake him from his slumber. They all knew he cried in the mornings. For a moment, just after he woke he would still smile and stretch the slender body, then reality caught up with him and there was a muffled moan; low and heartbreaking as it lingered on. They let him be alone because no one could help him with this, and Robin always picked himself up eventually.

Until they reached Sherwood Robin had played his part as his old self fairly well. It was strange that he could seem so almost back to normal, yet be completely different. John found it nearly impossible to pinpoint what was wrong with his mannerisms; you just knew that something was out of place. He was a little bit more silent perhaps, a little emptier and duller, and that was the bottom line. You couldn't pinpoint what was different because it was defined by absence.

John looked around and watched the steady English trees rise like pillars holding up the sky. They would arrive at the camp any time now and Robin had started to walk faster. He half-ran with frantic, tense movements that made John think perhaps he rushed because he wanted desperately to stop and never arrive at all. Robin couldn't afford to stop; he had to keep moving. Step by step; that is how Robin coped with loss. He pushed it back and treated everything like it was the last thing he had to do, throwing all his energy into the tiniest little things. Little John put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and forced him to slow down.

"It is alright," he grunted. "We will be there any time now. You're doing well."

Robin swallowed hard and nodded, allowing John's hand to remain firmly on his shoulder as they continued in a slower pace. Much was walking by their side, his face worried and a bit jealous that he wasn't the one comforting Robin, and Allan remained two steps behind them. John threw the redeemed traitor a quick glance. He still didn't trust Allan. When a man had lived with scoundrels in the forest, as John had done long before Robin arrived, he got a certain feel for people. There were just some kinds of men that you didn't trust, not because they were bad but because they were untrustworthy. He liked Allan. It was a nice lad most of the time, but he was also a man who wouldn't hesitate to sell his own mother for some nice jewellery. Of course, women who gave birth to men like Allan-a-Dale usually wouldn't hesitate to sell their son for a sack of flour, so perhaps it all evened out in the end. Most of the time you got the company you deserved.

It was Allan that stopped first. John could hear it because the rustling in the leaves behind him changed rhythm, and he halted to turn around.

"Oh, what now?" Much sighed. "Did you forget to give your address to that tavern maid at The Blue Boar?"

Allan was looking around, seeming puzzled and a bit lost. "Don't be daft, I gave her the general direction—Look, this can't be right, can it?" he exclaimed.

"What?" John grunted. "It looks fine."

"Nah, but it doesn't. It's all wrong, can't you see?" Allan waved an arm around and John let his eyes dart from tree to tree. It looked like a perfectly ordinary piece of forest some trees, some bushes, the occasional stone—He shrugged at Much and started to turn. "Oi!" Allan continued. "Don't go. Look at the traps, your traps. Well out traps now—"

"The traps?" Much repeated and gazed up at the treetops with a frown. "Allan, really, it is nearly dinnertime and the camp will be in a mess—we don't have time for this—"

"No he is right," Robin interrupted him. "The traps are all wrong. We didn't set them like this."

"Yeah, that's wha' I'm saying, innit?" Allan continued. "Didn't look like this last time."

"And how do you know that?" Much exclaimed. "This is our camp. Last time I checked you lived in the castle. Robin, we changed the traps didn't we? We must have—I mean I can't remember us doing it, but perhaps Will—"

"When?" Robin frowned. His posture was tense and alerted as he walked cautiously around the area, inspecting the traps and the ground beneath them.

"I kept myself updated mind you, I know all about the traps. I'm not stupid," Allan grinned.

"Well," Much mumbled with a resentful look at the trickster. "That can be debated."

"Someone has been here, there are fresh tracks," Robin interrupted their bickering as he let his hand sweep over the forest soil, making a rustling sound when the dry leaves were shuffled around. His expression looked stern and focused, and John realised that he savoured this distraction. Robin had avoided slowing down all the way through Europe; the times when they went by ship he had been up tying knots for the sailors or just pacing aimlessly back and forth. John could relate to that. To be still meant you were easy prey for thoughts and feelings, and grief could eat a person inside and out.

"How fresh?" he asked.

"Very fresh. And not so fresh. There are so many tracks here, I'd say this place have been visited quite frequently lately."

"What? Surely there aren't people in the camp?"

"Well, only one way to find out," Robin responded with a grim look at the slope that led down to their forest home. He had the bow in his hand and an arrow resting loose against the string, slightly more comfortable with the feeling of the smooth wood against his palm even though he still missed more shots than he nailed. Much was the only one who knew about that minor problem. If there was something he learned in the Holy Land it was that a leader shouldn't over-inform his men; some things were better in the dark.

They walked warily down to the camp, bows aimed and swords drawn. Robin made a tiny twitch with his neck, motioning to his men to stop half way down the slope. Much halted abruptly, too fast for Allan to react behind him. The sudden stop made the flat side of Allan's sword tumble against Much's shoulder; the steel cold against his neck as he flinched and leaped forward. He spun around and pointed the short sword at Allan.

"Ah-ha!" Much exclaimed. "I knew it! I knew we couldn't trust you! Master, he tried to kill me, it was him! The enemy is amongst us!"

There was an embarrassed silence as the outlaws all stared at Much's trembling sword and wide eyes. Allan shrugged at John who rolled his eyes, and Robin let his head dip down with a sigh.

"Much, he was the one who realised the traps were different," he said and rubbed his brow wearily, holding the bow and arrow in the other hand. "If there is anyone in the camp they are sure to know we are coming by now, John open the door."

"But—Master surely that was just to distract us! He has planned this all along."

"Wha?" Allan exclaimed. "You think I have walked through Europe, planning this for months? I could have killed you in your sleep ten times over by now! Look, I'm not exactly the kind of bloke who du stuff the hard way am I? Moron—"

"No name-calling, Allan," John scoffed as he pushed down the switch that opened up the roof of the outlaw camp. There was a creaking noise as Robin's bow was drawn and aimed at the opening; a dark mouth leading into the very heart of Sherwood Forest. For a while they simply stared. It was tidy, no brown leaves on the floor, and as empty as they left it. Then there was a movement in the dark and a pale face emanated from a corner, cautious under the bangs of light brown hair. Robin lowered his bow. The tip of Much's sword fell to the ground. Little John's stave was leaned against the rock. Allan started to put away his sword, but realised that he had forgotten to draw it again after the Much-incident and simply let his hand rest on his hip instead. Then the four outlaws gawked at the man in the opening.

"Luke Scarlett!" Much exclaimed.

* * *

_NEXT: 'Bon Voyage' is the name of chapter nine, where some people leave and other stay behind. _


	10. Chapter 9: And then there were three

**Hey peeps. Thanx for the reviews :)**

**Dina C: The chapters are still pretty sad, but it will get better eventually. Less wallowing in grief anyway :lol: I understand why people like Guy the least, I don't even read Guy-fics myself. He is difficult, but rather interesting, to write though.  
MissWed: There will be more Luke coming :D More Will/Djaq as well, not going to leave them in this horrid state.  
LoonyLover: I think Djaq is experiencing some disillusion when things didn't turn out as she planned. There will be sweet stuff between them eventually as well. Basically I think the situation they find themselves in put too much strain on such a fresh, fragile relationship. LJ will be better once everything gets better I think. :) Not going to have any more suicidal ranting from him, that was number two or three in stuff I hated about the finale.  
Gatewatcher: Yeah I feel sorry for them as well-- But I got stuff planned for them ;)  
X-Kate-X: lol, I love writing excitement and drama, there will be more stuff like that later on. :D  
LadyElsii: lol, glad you liked it. I update as fast as I can without wasting all my life on fanfiction :lol:  
Daze-dly: I never start a story that I don't finish ;) Yeah I was sort of in need for a alternative ending after the horror the beeb put my poor shipper heart through--  
MonthyPythonFan: Aw yeah there could be more MP references lol. I love them. :D**

**Love,  
Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 9: And then there were three**

_-In which Allan finds himself in a delicate situation that requires tact—Oh my._

Allan had been all set on going to Scarborough when he returned to England. Well, pretty soon anyway. In a not so distant future. Perhaps after the winter, when the roads were better. He had made a promise to Will after all, although he hadn't exactly specified how soon after the return he would do it. Might be just as well to wait, he had told himself as they set foot on English soil; it wasn't like anyone was going anywhere.

In any case, he had certainly not expected to find Luke Scarlett awaiting their return. Seeing Will's younger brother pop his blonde head out of the dusky camp had caused Allan to silently curse his bad luck. What was the point of making all sorts of fabulous excuses if reality kept changing the rules of the game? He would have preferred a bunch of useless guards any time, especially since he knew most of them. In his experience there was nothing quite as unsettling as killing a man who cheerfully sent his regards to your wife and children.

Yet here he stood faced with Luke Scarlett, as sweet end sensitive as ever when he shyly made his presence know. Luke had a certain resemblance to Will, but there was less latent anger in him. He was the kind of person that followed rather than led the way; gladly found heroes and role models to silently worship, even though he was more bothered with the state of his immediate family than the state of the world. Allan had noticed how Will was protective towards Luke and it was not simply because he was the elder brother. Luke had the kind of personality that made you think he needed to be protected and that made it all the more difficult to break the news to him.

"Where is Will?" Luke said as soon as he emerged from the shadows and walked out to meet the returning outlaws. "Where is he, what has happened?"

"What are you doing here Luke?" Much asked, still too preoccupied with the mystery of the young man's presence in the camp to get his priorities straight. He was pacing around the living area, inspecting the state of it and noting that the stores were well-filled. "I mean, you must have been here some time."

"Do you mind?" Allan sighed and let his eyes dart from the annoying manservant to Luke. "First things first, right? Lukey—the good news is, your brother is alright."

"But where is he?" Luke repeated. "If there is good news then there is bad news."

"Nah it's—" Allan started before he noted the tense atmosphere around them. He put a hand on Luke's back and shuffled him towards the slope that led down to the camp. "Look mate, go to that creepy floating head—"

"My father's memorial?" Luke asked him.

"Yeah that's it. I'll just talk to the lads. Will is fine, don't worry."

Luke nodded reluctantly and walked off with a final glance at the outlaws. He was used to being told what to do and was usually rather easily persuaded, too shy and modest to argue his case.

"You will talk to the lads?" Much repeated scornfully as soon as Luke disappeared behind the crest. "Since when did you become the camp shrink?"

"Shut up, Much. I have to do this," Allan sighed. "You really think I like breaking little Lukey's heart? I promised Will, didn't I?"

"That is good Allan," Robin mumbled, silencing Much's oppositions. Now that the danger was over he had taken on that aloof expression again, staring at some spot of nothingness in the dusky camp as the memories fell over him. This would be a difficult evening and quite frankly Allan was glad to leave it for a while. Shame though that the encounter that awaited him was nearly as bad.

The leaves rustled under Allan's feet as he walked off to that horrid memorial Will had built for his father. It was cloudy and the face would look like blurry, pale spots at best, but it still seemed like an appropriate place. The forest was naked with the approaching winter, the branches almost stripped bare in the chilly air, and Allan pulled his cloak closer around him. Why couldn't he they just have stayed in southern France over the bleedin' winter?! Surely Luke would have given up waiting for them and gone back to Scarborough, and he could just postpone this a little further—

"Where is he Allan? Where is Will?"

Allan stopped in the glen where Luke stood nervously waiting for him. He had a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, the bark already stripped off to reveal the smooth wood beneath it. What was it with the Scarletts and wood? As far as Allan knew there was a difference between a comfy chair and a hard stool, but wood was just wood. Yet they treated it with something that seemed like dignified respect, caressing it and smiling fondly at the dead material as they worked with it. If they spent half that much passion on the women in their lives, Djaq's choice of spouse might actually have been a wise one.

"Look Lukey. Don't be cross alright? Your brother thought he should stay in the Holy Land for a while—you knew we were in the Holy Land, right?"

Luke looked confused, as if he didn't quite know what to do with his body, then slumped down by a tree and started to carve the wood again. His movements were fast and angry as he pulled the knife away from himself, making flakes of yellow wood fall to the ground, and his work seemed purposeless. He was carving because he could, because he liked the feel of the metal against the soft material, not because he was actually making something out of it.

"No," he finally mumbled. "I didn't know. No one knew, they all just guessed. I asked everyone. They say you abandoned them, or died. Some say you were a myth all along, that there never was a Robin Hood—"

"Sorry," Allan murmured. "Nah we had to go, take care of the sheriff."

"Didn't you change side?"

"I changed back," Allan grinned, then his smile faded and he sat down besides Luke. Allan wasn't a modest man, but he knew his limits and he wasn't good at this. In his family you didn't talk about things. If he had a problem with one of his brothers they threw some punches, shuffled each other around a bit, then the winner bought the looser a beer. Actually they had been buying each other beers as long as they had hands to pick pockets with, Allan remembered rather fondly. He usually won over Tom so fighting him was expensive. Yet it was worth it, knowing how bitter that ale tasted in his brother's mouth and how much he could gloat and smirk in triumph. Allan grunted miserably, of course this stupid encounter had to bring out memories. He had a feeling the policy of throwing tender punches wouldn't work here though; the Scarlett boys were different, and perhaps that was why he liked them. They were nothing like the tough people he grew up with.

"Listen Luke, I know," Allan tried, "I know how it is to loose a brother. I mean, mine was a bleedin' idiot. He had t coming really—" The image of Tom-a-Dale dangling from the castle wall flashed by in Allan's head and he shrugged it off with a pang of regret. "Not that you 'ave lost 'im or anything. He just wanted to stay with Djaq. Some blokes get like that when they meet a lass that they think is special or whatever."

"Will and Djaq?" Luke asked a bit puzzled.

"Yeah, he didn't tell you? Head over heels he was. Well, is. You will understand when you get older."

"I am old enough," Luke responded flatly.

"Yeah? A special someone is there?"

Luke's face became red and Allan couldn't help grinning over his reaction.

"No," the young man murmured. "Not now. I have been here for months, when I heard the rumours that you were gone—I came here to find my brother. I have to find my brother. Now I will have to go to him—"

"Wha?! No Luke, listen, he is in the Holy Land. He said to me, tell Luke to be a carpenter, right? Make him proud." Allan frowned and fumbled for the right words. _Bond with him, reason with him, flatter him._ "Look at you carving that wood, you got it in your blood mate."

Luke stopped carving and they sat silent for a while, staring at the piece of wood clenched in his hand. It didn't resemble anything, just a shredded branch with curly flakes sticking out like some sort of frayed petals. He tossed it away and leaned against the tree, his head bumping against the coarse stem with a low thud.

"I'm going for my brother," he mumbled, his face stubborn and grumpy.

"Nah you can't!"

"I will."

Allan sighed and let his head dip down into his hands, rubbing his temples wearily. Perhaps Luke wasn't so very different from Will after all; he sure had that same stubbornness once he really wanted something. "You will go though France?" Allan asked.

"Yes."

"But you don't know a word of French!"

"Did you?"

"Not being funny but Robin did! And then there is the money—you need to take a boat you know. It's horrible! You'll hate it!"

"I'll get a job on a ship," Luke responded. "My mother always said; if you really want something, you have to work for it. It doesn't just come walking to you. It takes sacrifice and hard work."

Allan glared at the young man, then let the air out of his lunges with one deep sigh as he realised what he had to do. Allan-a-Dale was not a man that worked hard for things. He was a firm believer in the notion that things did come walking if you just waited in the right spot. Yet Luke was different, and in the end there was only one solution to this mess.

"Right," he grunted wearily. "Then I will just 'ave to come with you, won't I? At least I know the bloody way, more or less." He frowned and looked at the surrounding forest. "Well," he added. "It's south anyway—the way the birds fly in the winter."

"Do you think people will ever be able to fly?" Luke asked, a question seemingly taken out of the thin air. "It would be faster I think."

"Wha?!" Allan exclaimed. "People fly? Are you daft?!"

Luke Scarlett shrugged his shoulders and rose from the uncomfortable position by the tree. He wiped the leaves and pieces of wood from the coarse wool clothes and stood to watch the memorial Will had built. Allan studied him as he folded his hands and let his head fall down in a silent prayer; the structure casting a pale shadow over his figure and a soft wind tugging the bangs of light brown hair. Then he moved his hand to his eyes and wiped them off, a swift movement that he didn't care to shield from Allan. It surprised the older man a bit since he would have blushed with embarrassment if anyone saw him cry like that. In his experience it was a great way to give people a reason to beat you up, showing weakness publicly, but then again a forest wasn't really stuffed with people. Luke was red and puffy-eyed when he turned to Allan with half a smile.

"You don't need to come," he mumbled bashfully. "I can manage."

"Don't be silly. Why would I like to stay 'ere in the cold bloody winter when I can go south? Nah, it will be like a vacation mind you."

"Really?" Luke smiled gratefully, and Allan felt a short moment of something that he couldn't quite place at first. Then he realised that it was pride, the knowledge that he finally did something right. Sure, Robin would like him to stay here, but they could do without him. Luke couldn't. He needed him, and Allan wasn't used to being needed and having people rely on him.

"Yeah, sure," he answered with more certainty than he felt. In people thought that you knew what you were doing they would believe you and follow blindly, that was the big secret of a successful trickery. Luke needed to think that Allan was perfectly in control because it would keep him calm. The young man's eyes were filled with trust and gratitude, and it reminded Allan of the faces of the people watching Robin aim his bow at a hangman's rope. He would fix this. They would walk through France with the soles of their shoes worn thin, live off will and enthusiasm without a penny in their pockets. Who needed French when you could sing? Who needed food when your heart was pure? Allan moaned silently at the gloomy prospects of the trip. His feet would get wet and cold and sore, again. They would have to steal to live and Luke would silently resent him for it, since honest men never understood the necessity of dishonesty. When they finally arrived at their destination it would be hot and sandy everywhere. They would be seasick and starving, and then Will would very gently persuade them to go back home without him.

"Thank you," Luke mumbled shyly before he turned to take the lead back to the camp. "Thank you, Allan."

---

The camp was unbearable so when Much offered Robin a flask of strong October ale he took it in spite of usually being cautious with alcohol. It wasn't much of an escape but it dulled him off a bit, made it easier to be rude and irrational and not care about his companions. He raised his mug to cheer in mock celebration of their safe return and nearly laughed out loud at the outlaws' discomfort. Sorrow did not become him. Robin knew from experience that he became nasty when he lost control, felt frustrated and trapped. Now the camp felt unbearable and he reacted by being mean and snappy, pushing back the guilty conscience at their hurt expressions. Everything here reminded him of Marian. The blanket he had wrapped around him had once been wrapped around her, back when she needed heat to be comfortable. He knew it was this one because the edge was frayed from where her fingers had played with the threads, absently untangling the weave until Much pointed out that threads were useless on their own. It was strange how a harmless memory could feel so fraught with dire consequences in retrospect. Had Marian not done with her life as she did with the blanket, untangling herself from the group to play her own game, she would still be alive. A shudder went down Robin's spine and he took another sip of the strong beer, feeling it burn without warming him up. A blanket wouldn't do her any good where she was now, any more than the untangled threads would.

"It will get better."

Robin flinched and turned to Little John. "Pardon?" he mumbled.

"It feels hard now but in time, it gets better. Easier," the big man repeated.

"Because I will forget her," Robin answered bitterly. He knew it was wrong to cling to the memories, to wallow in grief, but a part of him feared what would come when sorrow faded even more than sorrow itself. The emptiness was to terrifying; the knowledge that there might be a world without her, where he could learn to live, felt wrong.

"You will never forget her, master," Much pointed out. "You didn't forget her in the Holy Land did you? I mean—during the war."

Robin gave out a bitter laughter. That was part of the problem, a small part but still. In the blazing heat of the Holy Land there had been times when he had forgotten about her. Even though he had missed her, he hadn't always remembered what it was that he missed. Her face had become a pale memory, the features he had known so well started to elude him, and words she once spoke became impossible to recall. Those had been the loneliest nights, more frightening than the Saracen swords because everything had felt so utterly futile. In time it would be like that again. There are more ways than one to loose a person, and she would disappear from him bit by bit until the memory of her was watery and full of holes.

"Much is right," Little John agreed. "You will not forget. But it will be easier."

"So," Robin scoffed, feeling irrationally resentful towards these people that only wished him well. "Ten years from now I won't scare my friends senseless by shouting that I want to die?"

The following silence was so tense it seemed stifling. _Did that hurt, John?_ Robin thought; his grief-stricken mind unkind and selfish. He felt no wish to apologise, only wanted the heartache to cease somehow. _I hurt more._

"That was uncalled for, Robin," Much said cautiously. "You do not mean that. You hurt and—sometimes you say things you don not mean."

"It was a question not a statement," Robin smiled. He hated this. He hated to be here in this camp in this forest. He hated the stupid blanket that kept him warm, resented the night that made him remember lying awake and listening to Marian's soft snoring next to Djaq. He detested the morning as well, because a morning was the beginning of another day. He hated the trees because they didn't care about his pain and hated his friends because they did care, but said all the wrong things. He even hated the outlaw's looks when their eyes were shot, because he knew how they would look if they were open and aimed at him. It wasn't easy to please him, Robin thought with a shivering laughter.

"So," he continued, still shaking with tainted glee what refused to be cowed. "We need a plan of action."

"What, now?" Much exclaimed. "Master surely—We don't need to think about that now! I'm not sure you should have more ale, perhaps we should go to bed. I mean—everything will look better in the morning."

"It will look the same, only slightly lighter once the sun is up," Robin murmured. "The sheriff is back, we are back. Remember what that maid on the Blue boar inn said. Vaysey is planning a feast to celebrate his victorious return." Robin felt anger for a moment overshadowing the grief at the thought of the sheriff and Guy.

"We are only four," Much pointed out and looked over to the corner where Allan and Luke sat silently. They looked uncomfortable and Allan was uncharacteristically silent. "Well, five, if we count Luke I guess."

Allan gave Luke an awkward glance and the younger man stared down into the leaves, the flames from the fire making sharp shadows dance over his features.

"What?" Much asked.

"Well," Allan mumbled. "I think perhaps you will be only three."

"What!?" Much repeated louder.

Luke took up a stick and started to poke around the fire, making it spit and spark with little embers escaping to the floor, glow a few seconds and die out.

"Luke and I are going away for a while," Allan answered, chewing on some dry meat while he avoided the outlaws' looks. "Should 'ave said earlier, I know—"

"I knew it," Much exclaimed. "Luke, what has he told you? Don't listen to him, whatever he said! He can not be trusted. Hah! Oh, I said he would betray us again, but did you listen? No, no one listens to Much— Well, I'm just saying. Perhaps you should."

Robin had lifted his eyes to Luke and Allan, and studied them intensely while Much continued to ramble. To listen is not only to hear the words spoken, it is to feel them and register the tone and mood surrounding them. Robin knew the art of reading between the lines, and to be honest Luke Scarlett wasn't very subtle. There was more there than Allan's simple words, and then he realised what it was. "It was Luke's idea," he interrupted Much. "Allan is trying to do the right thing."

"Oh," Much said a bit taken aback. "Ah—well—is that true?"

"We're off to pay Will a visit," Allan mumbled in response. "Right or not—mind you, doing things right isn't really my strength. Can't let him go alone though, can I?"

The camp was silent as Much failed to find any words to express his thoughts about this unexpected turn of events, and John simply sighed and rolled his eyes. Having to put up with the folly of youth was the curse of aging, it seemed. They would never listen. Finally Robin just nodded and smiled faintly. The ale was starting to get to him, making him drowsy as he started to sink down deeper by the wall; the cloth of his blanket scratching against the rough wood. Two more threads untangled from their weave; and then there were three.

"Very well," he sighed in a tired voice. "Give him my regards. We can still pay the sheriff's party a visit—three will be quite enough."

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**NEXT: So what is Marian up to anyway? You know you want to find out. ;-)**


	11. Chapter 10: Orare

**Hello peeps. :) Here comes chapter 10. It was actually going to be twice as long but I decided to put the second part in chapter 11 so that the update wouldn't be too heavy on you. ;)**

**X-Kate-X: Ty, I love writing Allan, especially in conversations. :D He is so sweet and fun, and he has a lot of flaws in the same time.  
DeanParker: Well, Marian will run into someone. :p  
GateWatcher: 'Before Robin does something stupid' Ooh how foreboding. I think Robin may be in very great risk of doing something stupid in-- say-- chapter 13. LoonyLover: lol, perhaps I shoudl just made Much depressed as well :p Nah, there will still be some bickering and so in the camp, but I have a rather nice story planned for the outlaws eventually. **  
**LadyElsii: Ty. :D I feel rather sorry for Robin, it will be a difficult winter in sherwood.**  
**Jess: And now you get to find out lol.  
Daze-dly: lol, well Allan isn't all that well-known for having a backbone-- But he is so much fun to write. **

**I have struggled with this chapter so comments are more welcome than usual.**

**love,  
trixi  
**

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**Chapter 10: Orare**

_-_ _In which Marian has a jolly good time with her travel companions (or maybe not)_

They had spent the day moving slowly over narrow, rocky roads that cut like snakelike gashes through the bushy landscape. The single horse carried most of the packing and occasionally also Ritter Johann, but Bruder Lukas and Marian had been left to walk. It was three days into the journey north but the first day off the main roads. Sharp pebbles made their way into Marian's sandals and she had blisters from the straps, but she was careful not to utter a word of discontent. Her mind was far away, lost in some distant memory that she replayed over and over again. She had expected to be relieved once she was on her way, but to her surprise her reaction was quite different. She was terrified.

Fear was a strange sensation for one that had grown used to feeling hollow; dulled while her fighting spirit hibernated in the winter of her grief. Everywhere she looked she saw Robin. The landscape had his colours. The bow that bobbed up and down with the horse's movements was so poorly maintained that it would make the devoted archer cringe. She could almost see Robin before her; frowning as he pinched the arrows' feathers between his thumb and index finger, and straightened them with soft strokes.

"_You need to look after your bow," Robin sighed where he sat crouched on a log and held an English longbow in his slender hands. He was only seventeen but he could fire a bow that was nearly as tall as he was, and Marian's little weapon looked like a toy when he held it. Later it would occur to her that the bow probably had been a toy, a harmless amusement for the young noblewoman whose independence needed to be cowed. _

"_I do look after it," she responded and wiggled down beside him. "What, you want me to sing it lullabies after I have tucked it down in the evening?" _

_Robin laughed. "No but you should restring it," he smiled and gave her dark braid a tug. "Why do you have it anyway? Shoot pigeons?"_

"_No!" Marian blushed. She hated when Robin made fun of her, and she wished desperately that he wouldn't make her feel so foolish when I came to the archery. She wanted to be his equal, and perhaps that was why she had pestered his father until he had bought her the beautifully carved hunting bow. She had recently turned thirteen, the minimum age for a woman to marry, and Sir Edward knew before Marian did that her life would have to change dramatically in a very near future. There came a time when she couldn't hide behind the gray gender of youth any longer, and even though she would fight it, thirteen-year old Marian couldn't share the freedom of a child. _

_Marian loved the bow. She didn't love it in the way Robin loved his bows, but she loved what it represented. Her other presents, the beautiful dresses, the jewellery, they all told her to grow up. The bow, however, told her she was still the same Marian, and what she really wanted was for Robin to teach her to shoot. Things between them were changing. She missed their simple friendship, but no matter how she tried to stay the same he seemed more and more cautious around her. She knew it must be because she grew and she hated her body for getting in the way, almost as much as she hated her father when he gave Robin grim looks across the yard. The world was ganging up on her, it seemed. What did they expect? That Robin, who she had known all her life, would suddenly decide to desecrate her? Marian couldn't help feeling embarrassed and self-conscious at the last thought. She had seen Robin with the kitchen maids and servant girls, how he wheedled them and made them blush and giggle. To be honest she wouldn't actually mind it if he treated her so, but of course she couldn't tell him that. There would be no end to his smugness. _

"_To shoot suitors," she snorted instead. "Father says a lady must be careful not to get kidnapped and forced to marry some scoundrel." The last part was true and Marian smirked to herself; her father did worry about such matters. 'Kidnap-weddings' still occurred occasionally, and all French manners in the world didn't seem to polish the crude English gentry. _

"_Suitors? My oh my, doesn't my Marian want to get married then?" _

"_No!" Marian stared at her feet and ignored how warm her ears suddenly felt. "I mean I—that has nothing to do with this."_

"_Well, isn't that a shame," Robin coaxed and gave her cheek a tender stroke. "And I was just thinking how very pretty you have grown." Marian blushed wildly as Robin rose from the log and tossed her bow at her. It would occur to her much later that he had seemed embarrassed as he shied away from her proximity, almost as uncomfortable as she had felt. He rose so fast it startled her, jumped up to grab a branch and swung from it playfully. "Come!" he yelled as he let go of the bough and his feet hit the ground with a hollow thud. "We better get back home or your father will think that_ I_ have kidnapped you and forced you to marry _me_. Last one to the kitchen is a Saracen!" _

Marian shut her eyes and fought the tremble and queasiness that followed the reminiscence of her lover. In the end it was the fear of never meeting Robin again that scared her the most, not her travel companions. Every step towards England was a step closer to the truth. As long as she was here Robin might still be alive, waiting for her with that infuriating grin, infinitely smug and self-assured that she would love him. Marian swallowed and forced herself to rewind the last thought. Robin hadn't been infinitely smug and self-assured; when it came to her love he had been insecure like a little boy. He, as she, had merely played his part, and when she left she must have left him dangling. Did he still doubt her love? Did he die doubting her? Perhaps he even found someone new to love now that she was gone. What did she do if she came back and found him taken? She felt sure it would be a sweet girl; lovable, humble - one that kissed his frown away. The girl in Marian's head was only a figure of her imagination, but the jealousy was immediate and real. It was the prospect of going home that truly made her feel sick with fear, and yet that was all that she wanted to do.

The little retinue didn't stop until the night fell and the two men sat down, Ritter Johann leaning causally against a rock and Bruder Lukas bent down in prayers. The landscape around their campsite was hostile with man-high thorny bushes, but it made it easy to find dry twigs to make a fire. Marian prepared a meal out of a scrawny rabbit and served it clumsily in the dusky evening, receiving a slap across her face when the bread slipped out of her grip. She picked it up, brushed off the sand and wrapped it in a piece of linen cloth to keep some moisture. Only a fool would talk back to his superiors; you didn't challenge them or show resentment. She knew that because she used to be a superior and recalled how the new maids would treat her, cautious and meek. Her ear still rang from the hit when she withdrew from the men and started to chew on a piece of bread, dipping it in fatty broth from the rabbit. The food seemed to swell in her mouth but she forced herself to swallow because she needed the nutrition. Darkness closed around her and her entire world was made up of a faint circle of light where two German men formed words that she didn't understand. They weren't her friends but her entire existence depended on them not knowing that.

She watched their features become eerie as the sharp shadows moved restlessly with the flickering of the fire. Bruder Lukas had been drinking from a flask of water but it was only Johann who ate, and when he was done he leaned back with a content sigh, gesturing towards Marian. She moved up to put some more wood on the fire, but instead Ritter Johann grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him with a hard tug. Marian's heart skipped a beat as she tumbled against the man and felt herself instantly enveloped by a stench of body odours poorly covered up by aromatic oils. His face was shiny from the fat meal and he leered at her, moving his hand hungrily up and down her body.

Marian's mind scrambled for a way out but she felt blank and cold with fear. She shut her eyes and pressed her lips tight together to not give out any sound. In that moment the full extent of her choice lay bare before her. She had trusted her virtue, in the extent that she still had one, to be safe because she was a noble woman at her core, and she had a basic understanding about her own value. The problem was that she wasn't valuable here. She was no one, didn't even have a name, no real personality in front of these men. In her mind every finger now exploring her curves left a foul trail. She felt soiled by his lust for her, tainted and disgraced. Yet it would be futile to resist. Marian had met men like Ritter Johann a hundred times over. She had been warned for them and knew enough to keep them on a distance, but as a servant and a stranger Marian suddenly lacked all her usual protection from his advances. There was no social safety net.

'_Everything is a choice, grow up!' _a little voice mocked Marian's heart, which beat wildly in panic. It seemed painfully clear, as she was trapped by the knight's heavy body, that everything wasn't a choice. Or perhaps the only choice was between bad and worse. She had always considered herself aware of the lives of kitchen maids and servant girls, but it was only now that she fully comprehended how utterly exposed they really were. It was generally considered acceptable for powerful men to violate the precious virtue of women that were beneath them. Society might raise an eyebrow or two, but as long as they kept it fairly discreet and legal no one would have any real objections.

As Marian made herself limp and disconnected her thoughts from her body, she saw Robin's face in front of her and clung to it. She remembered the first time he touched her like this, his hand trembling as it gingerly explored her body outside the dress. It had been so different, his kisses tender and warm and her heart fluttering with joy. Now the coarse hands of Ritter Johann continued to taint her with their unwanted attention and her thigh was pinned to the ground. Her stomach flipped and she felt sick with disgust as she sensed his trembling breaths against her skin, laboured and filled with barely restrained anticipation. Then his lips came crushing down on her, leaving wet spots like open wounds on her pride, and she shut her eyes so hard that she saw red stars dance in he darkness.

Then, as sudden as it had started, it was over. Marian heard some hard, snappy words in German, angry words, and Johann let go of her as if she burned him. He pushed her away so violently that she lost balance and scraped her elbow against the ground, but the feeling of relief was stronger than the pain. The cold air was liberating around her, she felt light as if she was floating, detached from the earth beneath her. She opened her eyes and saw Bruder Lukas stand with a disgusted expression in his face, chastising Ritter Johann. To her great surprise the knight did not talk back. He simply caved in and seemed ashamed. For the pale monk he bent without a word, much like the fat bully who remains on top of the world until his mother comes pinching his ear. He made himself instantly subdued and didn't even seem to give his own uncharacteristic submission much thought.

Marian looked up at the men and crawled away from the circle of light, wishing to stay as far away from the fire as she could without freezing to death. The argument didn't go on for long. Lukas gave Johann's head a slap with his hand and tossed a blanked at Marian. For a short moment their eyes met in the dark and Marian didn't bother to look away. Most of the time Lukas' eyes had a kind of ethereal expression, more concerned with his own inner landscape than his fellow travellers, but when he did focus them they were scarily astute. They were also cold, didn't display any sympathy or tenderness. Then there was a short moment of surprise in his features, and Marian lowered her eyes again, cursing her own boldness. Pupils that were small, even in the darkness, continued to stare at her surrounded by a watery blue halo. His look posed a silent question, wondering who she was, and Marian felt herself recoil under the pressure of his scrutinizing eyes. The feeling of uneasiness that he had spawned in her on their very first encounter came back with renewed strength. He had defended her because he was a fanatically pious man, Marian realised, because of decency and respect towards his God. She had nothing to do with it. An impulse made Marian rise to her knees and fold her hands. It was a wise move because it humoured him, and he moved his attention away from her.

"Ja—_Orare_," Lukas exclaimed and turned to Johann who obediently kneeled and folded his hands in pray as well. 'Orare' was Latin for 'Let us pray' and the crackling from the fire sounded loud in the silence that followed. Marian waited for Ritter Johann to stop praying before she tucked the blanket around her body and lay down to finally get some rest. She was still shivering like a small rodent, her heart pounding wildly in fear and it made her tense in spite of the exhaustion. Her lack of control had almost stripped her of the last of her integrity today, and the knowledge burned inside her.

Lukas continued to pray long after she stopped, his knees digging pits in the soil as he rocked back and forth with the rosary clenched in his bony hands. She let her eyes rest on his figure, the tense position of his limbs and the eyes that were wide open and stared into the flames. As guardian angles go he was a sinister figure, not to mention a sworn enemy to the English king. Then he started to mumble the prayers to himself and Marian fell asleep to the sound of his Ave Marias and Pater Nosters, a hypnotic buzzing sound in the periphery.

When Marian woke up later from a nightmare he was still praying and she wondered drowsily if he ever slept. She felt a shudder run down her spine and pushed back the queasiness as her dream returned to her. This was her life now. In her nightmare Robin had his arm around a woman, blonde with a beaming smile that seemed perfectly innocent. His other hand had been resting on the woman's round belly, and he had kneeled down to whisper with his lips against the frock, his eyes filled with awe and devotion. Then the woman's smile suddenly grew fangs and Marian could only watch helplessly as a dagger was plunged into Robin's crouched back. She woke up with a twitch and Robin's tender mumble to his unborn child became Lukas' prayers. Her scream turned into a gasp and she pushed her hands to her mouth before any sound could escape and give her fraud away. She could not afford to cry out loud.

Since the day she was born Marian's control over her own life had been very limited. The years had only made her gilded prison bars stronger, and as her wisdom grew her possibilities to openly make use of it withered. It had been a matter of survival to split her personality in two; one to show the world and one to hide inside. Now the external circumstances of her life were changing but beneath the surface she still remained the same. The lack of control felt suffocating like a wet blanket wrapped tightly around her body, yet it was in a way no difference from the life she had been living in England. The split was only more dramatic, and her loneliness more intense. That first night was the first time the strange power-balance between the two knights became apparent to her. It was also the first time that Marian realised that she had a strange kind of friend, or rather a guardian, in one of her enemies. Ritter Johann may be loudest and most prominent, but it was Lukas that held the real power. Right now that simple fact was the weak thread that kept Marian's life from falling.

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**NEXT: People keep moving north, another ship is wrecked and Bruder Lukas keep getting weirder.**


	12. Chapter 11: Superbia

**Hey here comes chapter 11. :)**

**Dina C: Don't worry it won't take years. Much like other birds she will fly home in spring. ;)  
DeanParker: When I get bored with tormenting the characters. ;) No seriously, I have some stuff in the pipeline for them while still apart, but she will come back home to Sherwood in time.  
GateWatcher: yeah I feel a bit bad for Marian too... but they will be reunited eventually so at least there is an end to her suffering. And she will be wiser and less guarded towards Robs when she returns.  
LoonyLover: Oh don't worry, Robin WILL NOT have a new love interest, he will be all angst until his love returns. As for the count, I think you can count (sorry bad pun, lol) on him appearing later on ;) **

**Comments are, as always, love.**

**Enjoy,  
Trix**

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**Chapter 11: Superbia**

_-In which there is an unholy alliance waiting to snap around the Lion's neck_

It was nearly another month; a month that passed in silent contemplation as Marian moved north with the German crusaders. Winter's first snow fell upon them in a naked, sparse forest, but the big, wet flakes faded as they hit the ground. Still the air was chillier, and so was the mood in their little retinue. It had occurred to Marian a week ago that these men didn't know where they were going. Ritter Johann was grumpier, more silent and bit by bit he turned to Bruder Lukas for directions. As for the brother he remained the same, only even more frantic in his prayers. Always a small eater, he started to starve himself until he restricted his meals to breakfast, and never anything heavier than fish and bread. He looked unwell, and his deteriorating condition scared Marian. She may not like him but she needed the safety net he provided for her. The houses were far apart here and their path was surrounded by ragged mountains. Thus this place was a prison because there was too much space around them, and Marian wouldn't have anywhere to run.

Now that Lukas' skin was unaffected by the blistering sun of the Holy Land it had started to swiftly loose its tanned colour, and his features appeared sickly pallid and bony. They had stopped in a glade for the night and Marian lay awake watching her guardian angel pray yet again. The cheekbones looked sharper as the light from fire made dark shadows appear in the hollows of his face. His eyes stared into the flames until they were red and tears trailed down his cheeks; his body rocking back and forth; his voice hoarse from inhaling the smoke. For every new prayer he moved his attention to the next stone in the rosary, rolled it between his thumb and index finger while the rest of the beads lay twisted around the bony hands, and the stones were worn shiny by his touch. He was a strange character, asocial and seemingly detached from the world, but powerful when he was present and focused. His features were grim and unmoved and his lips pressed so tightly together that he must constantly tense his jaws. He would be tall if he stood up straight, but instead he always walked slightly hunched so that his posture reminded of a street dog. He seemed obsessed with the holy words that escaped his thin lips, and it was not the first time that Marian wondered what he was praying for. Why did a man like that follow an ungodly figure Vaysey? One of the things that scared Marian the most about him was the fact that she couldn't figure him out. Was he insane or clever?

The mumbling was hypnotic and Marian felt her eyelids get heavier as if there were little weights attached to her lashes. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and was nearly asleep when the prayers suddenly stopped. It was so immediate and unexpected that it startled her and within a second she was wide awake, standing up with her bare feet sinking into the cold forest soil. She let out a gasp at the sight that met her, pushing her hand to her mouth in order not to give out a whimper.

Bruder Lukas had fallen down and lay with his back against the ground. His body was unnaturally stiff and twitching, the limbs jerked and he tossed his body from side to side like a fish on land. The throat was tense and arched with the Adams apple bulging like an abscess; his fingers looked like crooked claws. There was blood and saliva dribbling from his mouth where the teeth were clenched tightly into a distorted smile, and his eyes had rolled out of sight so that all she could see was two white, almond-shaped gashes. The fire had stared to lick his wildly waving arm when Marian's mind finally caught up with her. She ran up to the Brother and grabbed his jerking body, dragging him away from the fire while she scanned her mind for similar experiences. There had been a kid in Locksley that suffered from seizures; an odd, sickly child that eventually lost his sense in one of the attacks and lived the last months of his life as a half-wit. They had said to put something in his mouth if he started to shake, and Marian pushed in a piece of wood between Lukas' teeth. They were so tightly clenched she had to force them open, and there was already blood trailing down his chin since he had bitten down on his tongue.

After a while the twitching ceased and the rigid limbs relaxed. Marian realised that she was shaking and her heart throbbed wildly in her chest. Ritter Johann had slept through it all. She bent down to wipe away the blood from Lukas' mouth and put a blanket over the slim body, tucking it in beneath him. His breathing was ragged but the eyes remained open, and his mouth was pulled into a fanatic smile that seemed alien in the normally so severe face.

"Danke, Fräuline. Or should I say—thank you?" Lukas finally panted and Marian could feel her eyes widen. He spoke in English to her! Her confusion must have been obvious because the monk turned to her. His features were more tranquil than she had ever seen them, although it was a fanatic serenity. He had never looked sicker, the eyes red and puffy and his lips and teeth bloodstained as if he'd eaten raw meet. "I am no fool and neither are you, I think," he continued in a strained voice. "You are English, ja?"

Marian hesitated a while before she gave him a reluctant half-nod. What difference did it make now? She frowned and put a piece of rolled up cloth as a pillow under the monk's head, trying to conceal the tremble in her hands.

"Ja, I could see—also you are not so—what do you say? Behind? No, you are—you have good wits I think. You wonder now what you saw. Is that correct?"

Another nod. This was a rare opportunity, and Marian knew it instinctively. In this moment Ritter Johann slept and Bruder Lukas was confused and exhausted. His shrewdness was raw and in this vulnerable state he lacked his usual caution.

"God speaks to me," he mumbled and grinned at her. "He borrows mein—my earth shell, to channel His divine will. See my body—it is still shining with Him," he put up his hand in front of the fire and twisted the bony fingers with an expression of awe. Marian wondered what it was he saw, and in that moment the full extent of his insanity started to reveal itself to her. God's light in those sick fingers? She only saw the light of a lunatic, someone who was so deep into his own twisted world that he thought it to be the only Truth. Then he cleared his throat and spat out some blood. "God says—'_Be not afraid'_—the time of the Lion must end. You know the Lion, ja? The English Lion. _Superbia_, pride, is the worst of the capital sins. He is superbia."

Lukas' eyes were aimed at the sky rather than Marian when he spoke, his voice slurred and jerky. He spoke English well, but the accent and the way he spat out the words made them seem hard and sharpened. Bit by bit she put the pieces together and the sentiment filled her with fear. The Lion must be the King Richard, a king that God had told this fanatically pious man, must die. This was not merely a monk or a crusader; he was a sick man, an assassin who thought himself in direct contact with God. She had seen him handle his crossbow and the sword early in the morning and he was a skilled fighter as well. He may be her temporary guardian angel, but this was a dangerous man. Perhaps even the most dangerous man she had ever met, because he had no contact with reality. Then he started to speak of the vulture and it occurred to Marian that the bird he referred to must be Vaysey.

"The Vulture is Evil, ja? But he feeds of the Lion's death, like us. He will eat of the dead," he grinned and spat out some more blood before he continued "When I saw the ring I knew, God wills it. In death he will face his—his crimes but on earth there will be an—a strange friendship. God's children are Sheep, they must be safe. You will understand this?"

Marian nodded again and forced the frown from her face. He expected awe and admiration from her, and she had to play her part. _Fold you hands, widen you eyes. Make him think you see God in him, and he will consider you harmless. _

The conversation seemed to tire the monk and he ran out of air after the last rant, his words hardly more than hoarse whispers.

"I am tired," he murmured. "For sleep finally. Tonight—God told me there must be patience. Soon there will be word from the Vulture, and time to strike." He spat out some more blood and his breathing became deeper as he relaxed in the Spartan bed Marian had made for him. She rolled him over on the side so that he wouldn't drown in the blood from his tongue when he fell asleep, and made sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around him. After a while the camp was overtaken by the sound of the two men snoring, Lukas with gurgling and wheezing sounds and Ritter Johann with his usual, loud grunting. He hadn't stirred during the commotion, but she had a feeling he had seen this before. The frantic prayers, the starving and lack of sleep, Lukas' strange power over the other man; it was all because of this. The brother called forth this seizure, waited for it. Marian put some more twigs on the fire and started to pace around, rearranging the items in the camp. She was too upset to sleep.

What did this all mean? It must mean that both Vaysey and King Richard still lived, so the assassination attempt in the Holy Land must have fallen flat. Consequentially, that might also mean that Robin still lived and had managed to stop it. Of course, they could also simply be misinformed. Information didn't travel well in this disorganized part of the world, where much depended on gossip. Yet they had seemed so certain! Was it only God's word they had been waiting for? Marian felt uneasy as she thought about the two men's strange behaviour lately. God told Lukas to be patient, so there was something else they were expecting; a word from Vaysey. No matter how she twisted and turned this new information it didn't seem to make matters much lighter. Robin may be alive but she still didn't know and the king had more enemies that they had even dared to imagine.

Marian's choices suddenly appeared even more limited before her. She had to continue to follow these men, simply because she might be the only one who knew about them. She had been fighting for England for years, and she couldn't just ignore this new threat. Until she met someone to send word to the king this was where she had to be. Once again it was England first and Marian second, she thought with a bitter smile. How big were the chances that King Richard crossed their path? If he had survived Vaysey's assassination-attempt he would surely travel through France, not the dangerous countries in central Europe. Still these men must be in this part of the world for a reason. Marian rubbed her brow wearily as she slumped down by a tree. She was so sick of feeling like the world depended on her alone. All she wanted was to fall asleep cradled by Robin's strong arms, feel his breath warm against her jaw as he whispered that all would be well. All had to be well! If there was any kind of balance in this world God couldn't choose to support a crazy monk, no matter how much he prayed. She had to believe that since there was no way to keep fighting like this if everything was futile. She had to trust a happy ending, even if it wasn't her happy ending. In the end righteousness must prevail or humanity would be lost forever. With that thought Marian fell into a shallow slumber and didn't stir until the morning.

---

The ship was bobbing up and down on the waves, as if it was merely a fickle raft in this storm, and foaming saltwater surged in over the deck. The ropes creaked as the wind tore the sails. Carter made sure he held on tightly to the rail as he made his way to the stern but the wood was damp and slippery. Why did King Richard insist of being at the very centre of events all the time instead of simply enjoying the relative comfort of the captain's quarters!?

"Your Majesty," Carter shouted when he came up to the king, but his words got lost in the whining wind that whipped his skin with showers of pricking raindrops.

"Ah, Carter," King Richard exclaimed. "A bit of bad luck with the weather on this trip I dare say."

Carter tried not to moan. That was the king, literally, the king of understatements. First they had been forced to land in Corfu, a place unfortunately belonging to the Byzantine Emperor. King Richard wasn't the kind of man who made friends amongst his peers, and it had soon become clear that they weren't wanted there. Thus they had sailed off, no rather sneaked away, from those hostile territories disguised as Knight Templars. It was only the king and four attendants now, and Carter was one of them. He sighed and clung to a thick hemp rope; this was not the journey home he had expected at all. Instead of triumph there was only trouble, this king seemed to attract dangers like moths to a lantern.

"How do we fare?" Carter asked the captain, who gave him a look filled with open contempt. "We do have the king of England on this ship, extra caution is required."

"Aye, we might have to take to land," the captain grunted. He was the only one of the crew that fully knew the king's identity, and Carter nodded in relief.

"Where will that be?" he asked.

"Land," the captain snapped.

"Yes," Carter continued patiently. "But where exactly are we?"

"Aquileia."

"What?!" Carter exclaimed. "But that is in Northern Italy! How can we be that far north?! Your Majesty!"

"Calm down, Carter," the king answered with regal composure. "The captain knows what he is doing. Adam of Kent negotiated the route, you do trust in him do you not?"

"But we are off our route!" Cater exclaimed and refused to answer the question about trusting Sir Adam. King Richard knew full well that Carter had opposed his choice of bringing Adam as one of his attendants to the trip. "How shall we—how do we get home from here?!"

"Well, we will have to travel the land route through Central Europe," King Richard answered calmly. "If we are wrecked here we have little choice."

Carter pushed back the panic and nodded. Perhaps they wouldn't have to take to land, perhaps—he had scarcely finished the thought when one of Adam of Kent came rushing up from the hold. Carter felt the old familiar pang of worry when he saw the dark-haired nobleman. Adam wasn't a man that Carter would have guarding his back, but the king appreciated his straightforward attitude towards battles. He had no moralistic scruples and he didn't get worn out and moody by warfare, but rather stayed jolly and content with life. He was enthusiastic and vivid; an eager but greedy young man who cared little for politics as far as Carter knew. Now he was moving towards them with big, unsteady leaps, nearly slipping on the rocking deck. His lips moved in a shout that was drowned by the wind.

"—ip is taking in water," the ragged words finally reached Carter's ears. "Your Majesty, abandon the ship! She is taking in water!"

King Rickard nodded gravely and gave Carter a thud on his shoulder. "Very well. Looks like we take the land route through Austria and Germany after all," he said. "To the rowing boat, Carter. The rats are abandoning the ship, and I fear so must we."

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**NEXT: Robin makes a mistake.**


	13. Chapter 12: The guard's wife

**Hello again :)**

**Becca and DeanParker: Well Robin's mistake has nothing to do with Sarah or any other love interest, you can trust me to have hi miserable until he is reunited w Marian. :- Weather Marian will meet up with Carter and Richard is a secret yet. ;)  
Mizco: Yeah poor Robs... He will find out eventually, and he will probably find out before she returns.   
Daze: lol, the misery will end... hm good question. But it will end! And it will end happily.  
Gatewatcher: lol, are you implying that Marian is a person who tends to ramble a lot? I thought that was Much.. Oh what if it was Much playing mute, that would be fun hehe.  
xxCCxx: None of them will die along the way. King Richard is a historical character so if you want to know what happens to him you can just open a history book. ;)  
Jess: lol, sorry love... Don't want to get you all stressed up... It will end well, don't you turn into a nervous wreck on me.  
LoonyLover: lol, the last two chapters were pretty much finished at the same time. That is why that update was so fast. :p  
KeepingAmused: Ah a new reader to this fic, how nice. Glad you liked the Will/Allan, I do adore writing Allan... And there will be more Will/Djaq later on, but a little bit less angsty.  
LadyElsii: They will get to see each other again, I'm just tormentning them a bit first hehe. **

**Thank for the comments! And keep them coming lol. **

* * *

**Chapter 12: The guard's wife**

_-In which a single arrow seals the fate of many_

Melinda Baker was not a beautiful woman, nor was she rich or particularly charming. Her angular features looked nice in profile and echoed her determined personality, but in spite of her smooth skin and Roman nose she was undoubtedly plain. As she splashed her face in the bowl of water she studied the familiar face, frowning as the view got clearer and the ripples faded. In truth this world had more important issues than the state of the frizzy, brown nest that was her hair, but it is a rare woman who has not a single stroke of vanity in her portrait. Melinda was always annoyingly aware of her flaws in the early mornings, even though she wasn't one to whine about it. She grunted over the curls that formed a chaotic halo around her face, tugging the comb though another tangle. The naked sharpness that remained if she tucked them away was even less becoming, and thus she let a few frizzy curls escape the imprisonment as she tied the head cloth around her scalp. She gave her reflection a flippant smile, as if she wanted to say '_I do not care about you'_, and decidedly splashed the water surface before she rose and walked over to the fireplace. There was a breakfast that had to be cooked and a husband that needed to be sent off to work; indeed she had no time for girlish coquettishness.

A couple of months she had been married and it had been her initiative from the first look to the final bond. When Melinda knew what she wanted she wasn't one to wait patiently and flash her chosen one the occasional coy smile or bashful look. She was strong and determined; a matron-like character long before she was anything close to a matron. If fact, it was often joked that Melinda had been born matron-like, and when her eyes quite unexpectedly fell upon the kind, stuttering young man Thomas Baker he had been left to follow her lead. He did it gladly because Tommy wasn't the most desirable of men and he was notoriously afraid of anything that required initiative. They had formed an odd couple, he soft where she was hard, he shy where she was forward, he cautious where she was bold and curious. People had laughed at them, saying that it was the oddest couple where the cat led the dog by his tail, but what did they know?

Melinda felt a fond smile tug her lips as she let her mind stray to the man she had married, absently stirring the gooey gray porridge as she did so. She heard the familiar rustling as Thomas pulled out the chain-mail from the chest at the edge of the bed, and turned to give him a tender look. It had been Melinda's idea that Tommy should join the Nottingham guard. Marriage was a costly affair and the sheriff hired anyone with his limbs intact, even stuttering paupers. The fact that he had spent the first weeks mainly guarding the ground beneath his feet made little difference as long as it kept the coins coming to their little family. She watched as he took on the heavy garment, his movements clumsy like a bear on skis, and stifled a laughter. Even now he seemed misplaced in it and he looked at her with a slightly forlorn expression in his flat, round face.

"How-w do I look?" he asked cautiously and Melinda noticed that he lingered on the 'w'. It worried her because he only ever stuttered around her if his composure was crumbling; he was nervous out of his wits. Today was the day for the sheriff's celebrations and Thomas had a position next to Sir Guy. She had suspected right from the start that it was some sort of a punishment, even though Tommy hadn't said it out loud, and it had filled her with anger. Sir Guy had frightened him, and if it wasn't because he was a nobleman she would have told him a thing or two about common decency. You had to treat a kind soul like her Tommy right, he wasn't like other people.

"Handsomest soldier I've ever seen," she smiled reassuringly to calm her husband. Even though she knew it wasn't true it was true for her, and it forced a faint smile from Tommy's lips.

"I- I look like a w-walking sledgehammer I do," he answered jokingly. "'n I polished it up and all."

"Ay, a polished sledgehammer," Melinda grinned and filled a wooden bowl with porridge. "Come eat now love, won't have my lad go hungry while them nobles eat venison until their bellies burst open."

"Wouldn't mind s-seeing that," he muttered with a slight tremble in the soft voice.

"Maybe you'll get lucky; you got the best view of all."

Thomas smiled again and took a spoonful of the grey porridge, eating it with great appetite. He wasn't one to complain, her Tommy. When people scorned him for his stuttering he forgave them with a shrug and a smile. _They don't know better, Mel. Leave it. _He always did what he was told, avoided conflicts at any cost. He would avoid conflicts today as well and tremble like a mouse behind his powerful employers rather than ask to be replaced. Melinda pressed her lips together and suppressed a sigh. She knew that she was overprotective towards her husband but she couldn't help it. In so many ways Thomas was still just a child who choked on his own tongue when he got nervous.

"What will he have you doing, that dark one, Sir Guy of Something?" she finally asked him and sat down on the other side of the table with a bowl of porridge. Most days guarding was all about standing on a spot and shifting weight from one foot to the other, and Tommy shrugged.

"Whatever Gisbourne tells me, I suppose," he answered disheartened.

"I'm sure it will be fine Tommy," Melinda said cheerfully with a slight feeling of regret over bringing it up. "The nobles will be all jolly won't they? All that ale and wine. Perhaps you will get a promotion if you mind your words."

"B-better not s-speak at-t all then," Tommy frowned, instantly even more nervous about the prospects of the day. "Mel, I'm not sure—"

"Tis a job, Tommy! Just a job!" Melinda shook her head. "They may look like a weasel and a pig but I'm sure they neither bite nor soil themselves," she continued and grabbed her husbands hand reassuringly. "You just stand there and look all shiny 'n the day will be over before you know it."

"And then I will come home to you," Thomas said and the chain-mail rustled as he went over to give his wife a kiss goodbye. She felt his lips warm against her cheek and he moved his hand to cautiously untangle one of her stray curls.

"Aye," she smiled in response. "Then you will come home to me."

---

It was the day of the celebrations and the outlaw camp was waking up to a world painted in ice crystals. The winter's snow hadn't come to stay yet, but the mornings were crisp and frosty, giving the rug of brown leaves a decorative white brimming. Robin was filled with energy and Much watched him cautiously. He had been fine these last days. Ever so serene and composed, although a bit on the silent side. The problem was that Much didn't quite believe in it. He knew Robin well enough to know that you never really knew him. It felt like he was putting on a show, and if there was one thing that could make Robin loose his control it was Guy and the sheriff. Much would rather not have him meet with them just yet, but stopping Robin was a bit like stopping a river with a stick. He always found a way around you. The outlaw leader's steps were bouncy and vigorous as they made a little trail through the leaves in the camp.

"This is what we know," he said to his men. "The celebrations will be mainly in the great hall, but there is a speech to he populous planned on the castle yard."

"Ah," Much responded and breathed out a cloud of white smoke that dispersed in the air. "And how do we know this exactly?"

"Because I have asked around," Robin answered patiently. "Now, we can't get into the great hall without jeopardising our lives, but we can make an appearance during the speech."

"Aha," Much said again. "Yes, well that is—that is," _that is bloody stupid! _"That is a plan I guess. I'm just—exactly why are we doing this master?"

"Well," Robin looked a bit puzzled for a while, as if he didn't have a ready answer. "Well, the people need to know that Robin Hood is still here," he finally continued in his most persuasive voice. "It is a matter of making a stand, Much."

_No it's not_, Much thought bitterly to himself, _it is a matter of getting revenge_._ You don't have a plan you just want to piss of the sheriff!_

"But surely there are better ways to do that," he said out loud. "Making a stand I mean. What are we going to say exactly? 'Welcome back sheriff, just popping by to say we're still planning to rob you'?"

"Why not," Robin grinned. "It is polite enough."

"We are not supposed to be polite!" Much sighed and shook his head. "And I am sorry Robin, but this is a dumb idea. I mean, it really amounts to nothing, does it?"

"What is your problem Much!?" Robin exclaimed, suddenly edgy. "When did you become such a—such a wife?! Where is your sense of fun?"

"I don't have a problem! You have a problem and you just expect us to go along with it. And that is my problem. Because you are my master—and my friend. And I love you."

"Well, just as well now that it seems I will never—" Robin stopped the sentence half way through and gave out a short snorting laughter. "Never mind. I can do this of my own if you prefer to stay here sweeping the floor."

_Now that is seems I will never get married_, Much finished Robin's sentence in his head. That was the problem, Marian was dead. The sheriff's celebration was just an excuse to rage over the unfairness of the world. Not that Robin would ever admit that. "No that is not my point," Much sighed. "The point is you need to listen to us. You never listen!"

"I do listen!"

"John?" Much called out. "Would you say that Robin listens to us?"

Little John had been sitting silently with the carrier pigeon's cage in his knee and quite resolutely avoided the argument. For some reason the big man had taken a liking to Chuckles, and he had one finger tucked in between the bars, gently stroking the soft chest feathers.

"No," he grunted in response.

"There you go," Much continued addressing Robin. "You don't listen, John says it, I say it. If you listened o us you would notice that."

Robin took a deep breath and sat down on a log, absently chewing on his lip. "Fine," he finally answered in a voice that lacked the former enthusiasm. "We go to Nottingham, but only to listen to what the sheriff has to say. Is that better?"

"Only to listen?"

"Only to listen, nothing else. You have my word."

Much frowned. He still felt uncomfortable taking Robin into Nottingham, but this was a definite improvement to the original plan. In truth he would have to see Guy and the sheriff eventually; they couldn't just hide out in the forest forever. Thus Much reluctantly nodded his approval and choose to believe in Robin's words. In the end he was still the loyal servant and friend, and Robin was still the charismatic leader who wouldn't be subdued by anything. Not even reason.

---

The outlaws had made their way up to the battlement, overlooking the castle yard while remaining hidden behind the crenels. They had an open view over the city from where they sat pressed against the cold stones and Much leaned cautiously out from an opening in the parapet as he took it all in. This was Nottingham; his home, or at least the place where he had been born once upon a time. The angular shapes of the buildings were dull and gray under the thatched roofs and the smoke from the fires lay thick between the houses. This place was so familiar that he had wandered every street, but it had little charm in its current state and he felt no love for it. The buildings were deteriorating and from this view you could see chunks of chalk from the walls like little pools of snow on some of the poorest streets. He had not remembered Nottingham to be like this, all those months away in a foreign land. He had not recalled the musky smell and the sinister silhouette of the castle, like a slumbering giant ready to crush them all. He got an eerie feeling of being watched and moved his eyes to the big building. There was no one there but the thick grey stones and the dark openings of the windows - situated like narrow eyes on the tower. Why did people choose to live in a town like this? Constantly under surveillance of underpaid guards in flimsy chain-mail, sent out like the sheriff's drones to do his bidding.

Much could see the soldiers as well from here, their helmets bobbing up and down like silver pearls moving through the streets, or standing watch leaning on their axes. The guarding occupation's status had plummeted under the sheriff's rule; he hired anyone but only the most desperate would take it. They were drunks and gamblers and scoundrels, or half-wits, which might be even worse. All in all the Nottingham guards were thugs under the protection of the so called law, and people treated them with the same cautious contempt that they showed tavern tricksters or beggars.

Much shifted his attention to Robin and watched him intently as the castle yard filled up with people who came to hear the sheriff's speech. Robin had his bow in a firm grip and his face was hard and grim, the lips pressed together and the eyes a bit wider than usual. His breath came in loud, jerky puffs from his nose, and his posture was to tense that it trembled. Much didn't like it. Much could almost feel the anger surging through his friend's body like a battle drum, and in that moment he knew that it was a mistake to be here. They kept waiting for Robin to return to his old self, to be rational again, to make wise decisions based on reason and calmly accept his loss. Yet Robin failed to find peace. For months he just seemed to be pending between different phases of grief, treating the process like a circle rather than a line with an ending. Perhaps he just needed time, but there was no time. Now they were at this parapet, ready to face the sheriff and Guy for the first time since the Holy Land, and Robin wasn't ready. Much flashed John a worried look and received a sort of dejected shrug in response.

There was a noise of doors opening and the sheriff and Guy materialised from the darkness in the castle, closely followed by a guard who looked odd and uncomfortable. He clung to his weapon like a lifeline and lacked the expression of absolute power that the other guards had. Guy turned around and gave the guard a shuffle, chastising him for some mistake, and the man shied away before he took a position half a step behind Gisbourne.

"That man just can't live without an underdog can he?" Much muttered.

"Quiet Much," Robin hissed through clenched teeth. "I need to hear what the sheriff is saying."

The sheriff threw out his arms as if he tried to embrace the town and grinned happily at the gathered crowd.

"People of Nottingham," his voice echoed across the walls. "This is a day of triumph, a day of celebration! This is a day to rejoice, because I, the Sheriff of Nottingham, am back from the Holy Land. There will be no more chaos, no more doubt in my absence. I am happy to announce that your money, your hard earned tax money, is used well in the war. The king is successful!"

There was a smirk on Sir Guy's lips as the sheriff continued to talk about the glorious war and the magnificent success of King Richard against the Saracens. This was such a scam, such an obvious lie that surely no one could believe it to be true. Yet to the people of this town the sheriff was as close to the king as they got, he was the voice and face of power, and as far as they knew he had no reason to lie about this. Much could see Robin growing tenser as the speech lingered on; his knuckles white as he clenched his hand so tightly around the bow that Much feared it would crack.

"Lady Marian," the sheriff suddenly exclaimed, and Much saw Robin flinch and take a trembling breath to restrain himself. "I am regretful to say, was left behind."

The mood in the scene changed to rapidly and on so many levels that Much scarcely had time to react. Upset voices took over the courtyard, too many to make out any meaningful words, a wild chattering rising and sinking in confused protests that were increasingly loud as the sheriff continued.

"Lady Marian was a fallen woman, a dangerous woman!"

Sir Guy's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in a protest, but it was drowned by the choir of objections from the crowd. Then Much turned his attention to Robin. Chock was painted all over the outlaws' leader's face; the king of the forest was in that moment nothing else than a boy who heard his loved ones name dragged down into the gutter. His limbs were stiff and his body perched like a bird ready for flight, with every single muscle tense like a drawn bow and ready to be released. He put his hand on Robin's arm in a movement that he hoped would be comforting, but as soon as the hairs on the arm touched Much's palm, the entire limb twitched and was pulled away. His fingers only brushed the skin but he had felt the goose bumps and could see the veins bulging over the muscles. The breaths were laboured, fast and sharp as if it took all his power not to scream out loud. _It will take one spark now, just one spark--_

"She was a woman," the sheriff shouted to be heard over the raging voices. "Who conspired to kill the king!"

Then the string that had held the world together snapped. The crowd's voices rose to a roaring crescendo and Robin sprang up from where he sat, leaped to the top of a crenel and drew his bow. Much shouted an objection but it was drowned by the yells and he could only watch his master take aim and stand as steady as a statue. One by one the people stopped booing and turned towards the new distraction, an archer that they all knew so well but had though dead and gone. Now he stood like a gargoyle, perched up on the wall with his Saracen bow aimed. He was a living legend and the uproar was instantly cowed by his presence, replaced by an air of curious anticipation.

"Robin!" Much exclaimed. "John! Get him down from there. We must leave, now! The guards will come!"

"John will do no such thing," Robin responded in a silky calm voice, terrifyingly cold and detached. "If he does I will jump."

"Oh," Much stuttered nervously. "Ah, right. Why?"

Robin didn't answer; instead he focused all his attention on the sheriff and Guy. The silence was so complete you could hear a needle fall, the faces of the observers cocked up like pale moons towards the archer on the parapet.

"Robin Hood," the sheriff exclaimed. "We really must stop meeting like this, don't you think? To what do I owe this honour?"

"You conspired to kill the king!" Robin yelled. "Do you think I will let you taint Marian's name!? Accuse her of crimes that you committed!? I cannot let you do that sheriff."

"Really?" the sheriff responded as he calmly raised his eyes to the drawn bow. He made a little gesture with his hand and there was a rustling sound as a group of guards started moving. "And what will you do about it? Hm? You can't kill me; that would doom this precious city. Remember? Quite a conundrum isn't it? Heh. No, I really wouldn't want to be in your shoes—oh and are they slippery by any chance?"

Much swallowed and watched the soles of Robin's boots. They were slippery, worn thin by their travels, and it would only take one wrong step and Robin Hood would be smashed against the stone paving. He gave John a look and saw the big man's eyes following the guards who were moving one by one into the tower, getting ready to seize the far too bold outlaws.

"Robin," he said warningly.

"Not now Much," Robin hissed. "Not until I have done this, not until—"

"Robin, don't do this," Much snapped. "The guards are coming, we need to leave! Now!"

"No! Not until I have done this," Robin continued and Much suddenly realised that his friend was smiling. It was a grin full of fangs, his eyes wide and stripped clean of reason. "No, I can't kill you, sheriff!" he yelled, and Much could see his stomach ripple from a restrained laughter. "Not yet. But I can kill your Guy."

"No Robin there is too many people down there!" Much screamed. "You can't with your aim lately—you can't shoot an arrow into a crowd!"

"I have to," Robin laughed silently. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his arms had started to tremble, but he kept his aim. "I have to kill him. I have to! Did you hear what they said?"

"No but it was the sheriff who said it, not Guy—"

In that moment the doors out to the parapet was swung open and a group of guards made their way out towards the outlaws. Much's attention was drawn to the new danger, for a single moment leaving his master. There was a twang as Robin's bow was released down into the castle yard and then John's arm pulled the young man back and swung him over his shoulder.

"Enough of this," the big man grunted. "We leave! Now!"

A sword hit the crenel where Robin had been standing as the outlaws took off in a hazardous flight from the guards, leaping down to a straw roof and landing with a hard thud on the clay ground. They rushed though the deserted town, crossed through houses and down into sheltered yards. Finally they lay pressed tightly under the bridge leading into town and gasped for air, Robin with his bow still clenched in his hand but the rest of his body was limp like a rag doll. There was one arrow less in his quiver, one arrow that crossed the courtyard and pierced a heart. Much opened his mouth to yell at Robin but realised that his friend was crying, his body shaking helplessly as he buried his face in his hands. It had been madness to come here, but Robin already knew that. They were lucky to be alive.

---

"Hood is lucky to be alive," the sheriff mumbled to Guy as the guards came back from the chase with embarrassed expressions in their faces. "That was quite a performance he pulled today, hm? He is getting sloppy!"

"With all respect Sir," Guy sneered. "Hood is always lucky. He nearly killed me today."

"Ah but_you_ are not dead are you," the sheriff smirked and turned his face to the body that lay lifeless before them. There was a rustling sound from the chain-mail as he tipped over the dead guard to his back and saw the broken arrow like a banner in his chest. "He missed you it seems. Heh. Sloppy, as I said, very—very—sloppy. Who is this by the way?" he asked Guy with a disgusted expression.

"Just a guard," Guy responded dismissively. "Thomas Baker. I placed him here to teach him a lesson."

"Not obedient enough, hm?"

"He talked to his wife while on duty. A minor offence."

"Really? We can't have that. Oh well, he is not out problem now is he?" The sheriff rubbed his hands together flashed his golden tooth in a nasty grin. "Funny how there things work out? Hm?"

There was a shriek from the dispersing crowd and a woman made her way up the stairs. Her face that was red and wrinkled in pain and the hair had escaped the head cloth as she dashed through the yard. The frizzy curls looked like a magpie nest reaching half-way down to her waist and the sheriff wrinkled his nose in discontent.

"That is his wife, I presume?" he whispered to Guy who simply nodded in response. He took a step back as the woman fell down by the dead guard and removed his helmet with her trembling hands. "Anyone odd crow get married these days it seems," the sheriff sighed. "People have the strangest taste."

"Tommy! No!" the woman moaned and her voice broke off into a sob. "Oh Lord, oh lord don't do this to me! Not my Thomas! No! No—no!"

"La-di-da la-di-da, boring," Vaysey whined. "Do make sure you get her away from my stairs Gisbourne, hm? You know I can't stand widows."

"Will do Sir," Guy responded with a sigh as the sheriff disappeared into the castle. It had been a bad day for the sheriff's right-hand man. He had been forced to hear his employer malign the woman he had loved, and indeed still harboured warped emotions for, without being able to talk back. Even in death he failed to protect Marian, as powerless as ever against the sheriff. Then it had all deteriorated by him nearly being killed by one of Hood's arrows and now he stood faced with this pathetic widow. Her grief was loud and ugly when she shut her husband's unseeing eyes and pressed her lips to his, her shoulders shaking with stifled sobs. Then she suddenly straightened her back and closed her hand around the arrow, tugging it out with one fast twitch.

"Champion of the poor," she scoffed. "He put this in his heart! My Tommy did naught to harm him, he wouldn't harm a fly. It isn't right. It isn't right! He was coming home to me!"

"No," Guy agreed. "Life isn't fair, madam."

"Only did 'is job," she responded in a jerky voice, rubbing away the tears with determined motions. There was something eerily familiar about her, a darkness that Guy could recognise because he had felt it in himself. It was a yearning for revenge, hatred so deep within her that it could turn her spirit foul and bitter. For the first time that day he felt a smile tug his lips and he put a comforting hand on the widow's back. These were the people Robin claimed to love, his people, and she hated him with every fibre of her body. Today was a day that Robin Hood had made a quite unexpected enemy.

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**NEXT: There is a new person in the outlaws' lives, but is it friend or foe?**


	14. Chapter 13: The guard's widow

**Well, chapter 13-- I keep thinking it is an unlucky number :lol: Comments are still gold!  
**

**DeanParker: What?! Not a single word in all capital letters? lol. Thanx for the comment dear!  
KeepingAmused: Oh wow, thank you!!! ****You don't have to worry about me not finishing this anyway, I always finish what I start, and I will probably always write. ;)  
Daze: Awww I'm sorry... I just happens to like writing angst I guess. The don't have the ending finished but I have it sketched in my head. I post as I write, pretty much. The parting between Maz and Robs will bring some character development to Marian, b/c I think she needs to learn to be a liiittle less independent...  
Dina: Oh poor mrs Baker got a plan alright ;)  
xxCCxx: Melinda is Melinda and Marian is Marian, Occam's razer and all that jazz. (that response made very little sense didn't it:lol:)  
LadyElsii: Ay, it is a bit sad. You don't really want to be an oc in my fics, they tend to get into trouble.  
GateWatcher: Well, Robin have been to war. He can handle this. :)  
Jess: hehe okay, just take a deep breath before you read this chapter lol. Put in another MP reference btw lol.  
LoonyLover: I'm sorry about making you sad... I just like writing angst/adventure/drama more than I like writing fluff (don't worry, I still do write fluff lol). Much is a darling though isn't he? Furthermore English is indeed not my first language. I'm Swedish so I speak Swedish. **

**Love,  
Trix**

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**  
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**Chapter 13: The guard's widow**

_-In which there is a widow, a bored nobleman, two useless guards and some plagued outlaws, but the nasty killer rabbit remains brutally neglected by the writer._

The quill scratched the parchment as Sir Guy formed a row of slapdash numbers in the ledger, resting the tip against the paper while he mused over the calculation. He cursed loudly as a ragged pool of black ink sprawled out across the characters, and drew a thick line over it with an exasperated sigh. Keeping the books over the Nottingham guard was not his favourite part of the job and he constantly put it off. Unfortunately a chore that is neglected becomes considerably heavier when it finally forces your attention, and the desk was filled with papers staring at him in silent accusation. The sheriff was neat about these things but Guy didn't have it in him - even less so these days it seemed. His numbers looked sloppy and aggressive, as if they were attacking the parchment, and the sides of the ledger were filled with crossed-over lines and spots where he had been holding the quill wrong. Guy sighed as his mind started to stray away from the present chore, getting lost in another fantasy rather than remaining engaged in the necessary numbers. He imagined a mirror-image of the room his physical body occupied in this very moment - still busy with the same dull bookkeeping - but in his mind Marian stood by his side. She pressed her cool lips against his cheek as she leaned over and studied his crude calculations, laughing tenderly while she tugged the quill from his hand. '_You do it all wrong, love'_ she smiled and her fine letters were interlaced with his, the elegance end beauty of her handwriting soothing Guy's aggressive characters. It was such a prosaic little piece but it sent a pang of loss through his body. Once a person was gone so were all the dreams. They were nothing but hollow ghosts now; eternally vain and useless. Guy snorted and pushed away the futile fantasy, forcing Marian's apparition to disperse back into the nothingness of history. His hands were smeared by black ink, and he rested the quill against a paper while he wiped them on a piece of linen cloth, falling back into the chair with another sigh.

"Guard!" he sneered.

"Sir."

"My cup is empty, I suggest you fill it," Guy ordered in a snappy voice, and watched the soldier saunter off in the lazy manner of Nottingham guards. Useless, the lot of them. What he really needed was a good clerk to do his numbers and an obliging maid to pour him a bath, but unfortunately Vaysey used a sort of minimalist principle when it came to hiring people. He trusted as few employees as possible to carry out a wide range of chores not normally within their job description, with the ones highest on the ladder being most intensely exploited. As much as Guy enjoyed the lack of competition, the massive and sometimes rather unsuitable workload was a definite drawback.

The door to the study was opened with a squeak and the guard returned, holding a decanter pinched between his torso and upper arm in a noticeably ungraceful way. He did an obscure gesture with his axe towards the corridor as he lazed his way towards Guy.

"There's a lass out there m'lord," he slurred in a dull voice. "Waiting for you I reckon. Said to say it was urgent."

"A woman," Guy answered and cocked his eyebrow. "Anyone you know?"

"Could be Tommy's widow," the guard shrugged. "One of those bland ones you know."

Guy took a sip of the wine and frowned at the messy ledger. Well, any distraction was a good distraction faced with the bloody bookkeeping. He had been considering seeking out the widow Baker anyway, savouring the chance to taint Robin's name in the presence of one of his precious people.

"Very well," he grunted. "Let her in and leave us."

"Will do, Sir," the guard answered and Guy ignored the knowing smirk on the man's lips.

Melinda Baker wasn't the distraught wreck Guy had expected when she entered the room with steady, confident steps. Her features displayed hardness rather than grief and her eyes were unyielding in the pallid face, remained fixed even as she bent her knees in a twitchy curtsey. Guy raised his eyebrow quizzically but instead of greeting him the widow Baker stood in the middle of the room as if she was waiting for him to make the first move.

"Yes?" Guy snapped; demonstratively studying a paper to signal that he was a busy man. "I haven't got all day." The widow remained silent and he flashed an impassive look in her general direction. "Well? What is it? Have you come to negotiate your compensation?" he continued with a sigh. "It is a fixed sum, based on the number of years your husband has served here. It cannot be argued." Guy had explained this to widows before, although never to one who was quite this composed. They usually pleaded and cried, begging for mercy and compassion even though they should know Guy had neither of those characteristics in abundance.

"The compensation is a joke," Melinda Baker finally responded calmly.

"Well, you husband hadn't been with us for long Mrs Baker," Gisbourne continued patiently, keeping his voice professional and slightly bored. "If you wish I can put in a word for you with the matron, there might be a minor position vacant in the kitchen. Obviously that is assuming there is no needy offspring hanging from your apron-- The sheriff does not hire mothers, however pitiful."

"I don't want no job in the castle!" The widow Baker came alive so suddenly that Guy flinched in spite of himself and nearly knocked over his cup of wine. "You think I came here to be pitied? I may not be a posh lady but I have my pride. I am here to offer you to help me, _Sir_."

Guy snorted and looked at her with astonishment. He didn't like her way to say 'sir', over-pronouncing the title in a distinctly mocking manner, and she had some nerves to come here and offer him to help her. Who did she think she was!? "Really?" he scoffed sceptically. "Surprise me Mrs Baker."

"Oh it's simple enough," she responded. "I need to know that fancy yob who killed my Tommy, you see. _Robbing Hood_, they call 'im on the streets."

"You want to get cosy with Robin Hood?" Guy snorted. "Well, I would like to introduce you but I'm afraid we're not on the best of terms with each other." He gave out a laughter - no longer bothering to appear distracted in front of this commoner - and looked at her in open amusement. The paper he had pretended to study slipped over the edge and danced down towards the floor when he let go of it, and he bent down to shuffle it in under the ledger instead.

"Ay, but that is not important," the widow Baker insisted. "They praise him as a hero, the townies. A murderer! See, if I have this my way Robin Hood will not live to see another spring. And that, _m'lord_, is a promise."

"That is a promise from a woman," Guy jeered, leaning his elbows against the armrests as he sank deeper down into the chair. "Means less than the breath it takes to utter it."

"That is a promise from a widow," Mrs Baker snapped back. "He may steal your pennies but he stole my life, _sir_. I want this done my way-- it is fair."

"Life isn't fair," Guy scoffed in a slightly muffled voice. "You can't always get what you want Mrs Baker; I thought the poor knew that if anyone."

"Ay, wise words from a bitter man," the widow smirked sarcastically. "Are you too proud to work with a commoner then _m'lord_?"

Guy watched her thoughtfully for a couple of moments; the brown hair that seemed duller and flatter than the first time he saw her; the tense lips; the bold eyes that hid such fury. He was not one to make elaborate schemes; in truth that was the sheriff's territory. Yet this woman was his weapon and his alone. Consequently this would be his game, if he chose to play it, not the sheriff's. He took up the quill and tapped it against the desk, giving the ledger another dreaded look before he slammed it shut.

"No," he answered with a sigh. "I will listen to this plan of yours madam. Continue, but keep it short. I will not see my time wasted."

----

"I have been wondering if you meant it," Robin said and turned his face to Little John. His voice was soft and hesitant as he spoke; breaking the silence where the two men sat slumped down by some trees outside the camp. It had been a wild flight back into Sherwood after the sheriff's feast and the outlaws were exhausted. "Did you mean what you said that time in the barn, John?" Robin continued cautiously.

John flinched and shifted his position; seeming uncomfortable as if he wished to crawl out of his own skin. This conversation was unexpected and it was a sore topic still; an issue that normally only was addressed out of malice. This was not the case this time, and thus John remained silent but stayed put instead of strolling off. Robin gave out a short, snorting laughter.

"You are silent. Silent means yes," he mumbled.

"No," John sighed. "Silent means—I do not know. It means that I am not sure. Sometimes I get tired."

"I get tired too you know." Robin whispered the words, his eyes aimed firmly at the ground while he rummaged through the brown leaves with a stick. John put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a friendly thud. In times like this he seemed so much like a little boy, in spite of all the years abroad, regardless of all the wars he had been fighting, in spite of having lost and learned and lost again. They sat in silence for a while, watching almost hypnotically as the stick moved around and around in the mess of dead leaves and soil.

"But since I met you I have been less tired, Robin," John finally said and leaned back towards the tree. "What you do is good. You give people hope. You take an old, useless outlaw and you make him feel proud again."

"Today as well?" Robin asked with a sceptically raised eyebrow. He knew the answer and only posed the question to prove John wrong in his attempts to comfort him. "Did you feel proud today?"

John's silence made Robin laugh again; an eerie, hollow sound. "This time silence means no," he smiled.

"Today you lost it, Robin," John answered gravely. "You need to see that and learn."

"Learn, John? I hardly even remember—"

"What is it you don't remember?"

John and Robin looked up to see Much walking trough the leaves. His face still had red spots from the exhaustion of the flight and his hair seemed more unkempt than usual. It was tucked in behind his ears but a couple of strands had fallen out since he didn't wear his usual cap to keep it in place. Robin gave him a dry smile.

"This day. It is hazy—I just see—I just feel. I feel but I don't see. It is confused—"

Robin laughed a little without managing to get his friends to see the amusing side of the tragedy. Much took a deep breath and aimed his eyes at the sky, collecting strength for what he was about to say.

"It is Marian," he finally responded, and saw the smile fade from Robin's lips. "You have to talk about it. Master, I am sorry but this does not work—"

"Talk about it," Robin snapped. "That is the miracle cure is it? Talk and everything is fine—everything is fine." His eyes got lost in the leaves again and he lifted the stick. He had subconsciously moved it in two arches that formed a crude heart, and now the sketch seemed to taunt him. It spoke when he could not, put his feelings on display, and he wiped it away with a couple of swift sweeps. "I miss her so much," he murmured into the dishevelled soil. "I miss her so much, but I almost got us killed today. I killed—"

"You killed who?" Much asked cautiously when Robin left the sentence hanging unfinished.

"A guard. Only a guard. But it could have been a townsperson. It could have been anyone on that square."

_Only a guard_, Robin repeated under his breath It was only a guard but one that hadn't threatened him. One that would simply be replaced by someone else, faceless men who he might have seen a hundred times but still failed to tell apart. They were the sheriff's weapons. Just a guard, but a useless killing, and every guard was a life in the end. What were his noble principles worth if he disregarded them as soon as this fury trapped him? This day had been a disaster and he could not let it continue like this. He may be a man, but not only a man. Robin Hood was a hero, a principle, a cause. When he first aimed his bow at the sheriff of Nottingham he had made a choice, and since that day his life was not merely _his_ life. He had responsibilities.

Robin pressed his lips together as he formed a promise to never loose control again, hardly aware of the two men that watched their leader with puzzled expressions. If his mouth hadn't tasted salt all of a sudden he wouldn't even have known that he was crying, and he silently cursed himself for falling apart in front of them. Another dishevelled heart in the leaves.

"We will keep a low profile," he mumbled to his few remaining men. "Help the poor the best we can and spend the winter finding new allies. But we do not talk about Marian, and we do not mention this day. My thoughts are mine and mine alone—I will not share them unless I wish to. These are my orders and you will abide by them - or you better not to follow me at all." He swallowed and listened to his friends' soft breaths, smiling inwardly at the silence embracing his words. "Now leave me alone," he finished softly. "Please."

Robin kept his eyes shut, and thus he couldn't see the look of grateful relief passing between Much and John, nor the nodding heads or worried smiles. He could only feel the comforting pats of their hands on his shoulder, rocking his heavy body back and forth. Then he heard the rustling of leaves and his side felt cold as John rose, depriving him of the heat radiating from the big man's body. There was a change in the way the air closed around him and their steps moved away from him, further and further off until there was nothing but the sound of the forest surrounding him. A wind moved the branches and stirred up the leaves, it smelled of earth and the air was chilly but damp as though a rain was approaching. Robin opened his eyes and aimed them at the sky. The naked branches were crossed into a web against the gray clouds; desperately reaching out for something to hold on to through the winter. He clenched his hands and unclenched them, feeling the rough skin of his fingers rub against his palms. This body of his was warm; he moved; his chest rose and sunk in steady breaths - and thus he must be as alive today as he had been half a year ago. It was strange because he didn't feel it. The world moved when it should be still, he lived when he should be dead. Time didn't stop in honour of his grief, and no matter what; he had no choice but to follow.

---

The guards' names were John Dibley and Just Roger, and neither was a stranger to Melinda. John was a dumb but harmless man with a pale, weak face and a big nose splitting it like a ridge. He had occasionally been a guest in the Bakers' house while Just Roger, called that because that was how he presented himself, only was known to her through Tommy's stories. He was a typical bully as far as Melinda understood it; short and muscular with a substantially undershot jaw that became even more prominent because he had a habit of holding his head cocked. It was not the guards she would have chosen to accompany her but they would have to do.

Sherwood Forest was thick but naked around the little retinue and Melinda let her eyes dart from tree to tree. It was getting dusky and she was beginning to feel slightly discouraged, sensing the first heavy drops from a late autumn rain fall upon her untied hair. She had expected this part of her plan to be quick yet it seemed to go on forever.

"Are you sure this is where they use to be?" she asked Just Roger in a hushed voice.

"Yeah it's prime outlaw territory alright," the guard grunted. "Look, are we done soon? It's getting bloody cold."

"Oh shush," Melinda exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a murmur again. "Why is it that big lads like you always whine like little girls when it comes down to it?! I will shout again, give me a rough shuffle--"

"Look I'm still not sure," John suddenly said.

"What?"

"Just wha' we're saying and stuff."

Melinda tried not to roll her eyes. They had been out here for hours trying to catch the outlaws' attention and that dumb-wit still didn't have a clue about anything. He had the intellectual prominence of a goldfish!

"It's easy!" she whispered. "Listen. My late husband worked in the castle right?"

"Yeah Tommy-boy, 'im I knew alright."

"Yes, and he was killed in service. Now Guy suspects that he nicked stuff from the castle and hid it in the forest."

"He does?"

"No," Melinda sighed. "But that is the story. Now you have taken me 'ere because you want me to find the stolen stuff, right? It's either that or death."

"Dunno," John peered at her and crumpled his face in thought. "Some stuff is true and then some ain't—it's confusing that's all I'm saying."

"We'll get them outlaws' attention," Melinda ignored the objections. "And when we do they will try and save me, because I'm all poor and needy you see. All you 'ave to do is say 'If you save her she'll become an outlaw'. You think you can manage that? They will save me, and then I'll be in."

"Yeah about that, in where exactly?"

"In their gang," she sighed and turned to Just Roger. "Now give me another shuffle and I'll scream."

"Again," Roger grunted.

"Yes again! You get paid for this lads, don't you forget that. Sir Guy ordered you 'ere. He's mate of mine - now what is he to you, ey?" She cringed as she heard her voice form the word 'mate', referring to Sir Guy of Gisbourne. Indeed she had no love for him; he was merely a person who happened to have sufficient resources and hate the right people. Their friendship was temporary and founded on common enemies rather than shared tenderness.

Just Roger's hand closed around Melinda's arm and he shuffled her forward, forcing a loud shriek from her lips.

"No!" she yelled. Her voice was getting hoarse from all this yelling and she swallowed to gain new strength. "No please don't hurt me! I'm telling you I don't know where the money is!"

"Listen wench, if we return to Nottingham without 'em you will hang you will." Roger spoke the rehearsed words in a loud voice that clashed with the way he stared uninterested at the surroundings.

"No! Don't hang me!" Melinda yelled, pausing to hear if there was any sign of approaching outlaws. "Please! I'm just a widow! Let me go!"

"You heard the lady, let her go."

Melinda hid a smile and turned to the voice. At last they were here! Robin Hood and two of his men appeared from behind a tree, emanating out of nowhere by the looks of it, with the weapons drawn and aimed at the guards. Just Roger muttered 'finally' and gripped Melinda's arm harder.

"This is Sir Guy's business. Do not interfere." He said and turned to John Dibley who stood with a dumb look in his face. "Your key," he murmured.

"Mine?" John answered puzzled. "Oh right—um. If you—if you take her she will become an—no wait—she will be—she will be—"

Melinda shut her eyes and let her head dip down. Could it sound any more rehearsed?! That fool! Her hair draped around her face and she murmured 'an outlaw' so low that only the guards could hear it.

"Oh?" John continued. "Oh, an outlaw! She will be an outlaw if you—if you—then she will be outlawed!"

Robin Hood and his men stared at the little retinue with suspicious looks, seemingly unsure how to react to the peculiar situation.

"They're not Guy's best men are they?" one of the outlaws pointed out and turned to Robin who held his bow aimed at the guards.

"Hardly," Robin answered with a snorting laughter. "Outlawed you say? Good, I need new recruits. Now I suggest you let her go!"

The rain had started to pour down and Melinda sensed the familiar smell of wet wool surrounding her. Roger's hand was holding her arm in an absentminded manner as if he was on his way back to Nottingham already. He murmured something sounding like 'bloody rain, bloody outlaws, bloody woman, I'm bloody done 'ere I tell you', and she heard the chain mail rustle as he scratched his crotch with the other hand. Hood's words caused him to let go of Melinda and throw her down into the leaves, much in the same way as the matrons threw out the garbage over Nottingham's alleys in the early mornings.

"Alright, don't say I didn't warn you," Just Roger shrugged. "She's a handful this one. Come on Johnny, I need a mug of warm ale me."

The guards sauntered off and Melinda clenched her hand around a fistful of damp leaves in triumph. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wondered how they could fall so easily when all this was a charade. The poor widow saved by Sherwood's most chivalrous outlaw. Such a sham! A set of footsteps closed in on her and she felt something warm over her shoulders, recognising it as a man's arm draping a cloak around her crouched body. This was it. She was about to meet her husband's murderer eye to eye for the very first time, and all she could feel was a hollow cheer over the successful act she had just pulled off.

"Madam." She recognised the voice as belonging to Robin Hood, and looked up into a pair of concerned eyes as he kneeled by her side. Strange. He was so young and pretty, his eyes so filled with honest compassion when he looked at her. A couple of brown bangs were plastered against his forehead, wet from the rain, and he still held the odd bow clenched in his hand. That bow. The weapon instantly reminded Melinda who she was looking at and she had to force herself not to spit at him. The devil came in all sorts of shapes; from beauty to abhorrence and everything in between. She, if anyone, should know that what appeared innocent and harmless could be nothing but a sleeping dragon. There might be true empathy in his face but in the end that was why she had chosen to get her revenge like this. She needed to know this man, know how a hero could become a villain within the matter of a moment. If she was to kill, she had to know who she was killing. Otherwise she wouldn't be any better than her enemies. "It is alright," the young man continued. "You are safe with us. I will not let those men hurt you anymore. You are a widow?"

Melinda nodded and one of the other outlaws made a little kick against a bough on the ground, causing a rain of damp brown leaves to tumble down the gentle slope they stood on.

"Much," Robin smiled. "Whatever had that branch done to you?"

"Nothing!" the one called Much exclaimed. "It's just—it's just all this! A widow! I mean she has just lost her husband and they treat her like this!? This world—it's appalling sometimes isn't it? Appalling!"

The third outlaw, a big bear-like man, grunted in agreement and put a palm on Much's shoulder.

"This is Much," Robin continued with a smile that was tender but tired. "Don't worry; he is nicer to women than he is to branches. The big man is called Little John—don't laugh—and I am Robin Hood. Our camp is not far from here, and the Sherwood hospitality does not recognise wealth or status. Everyone is a nobleman and everyone is a commoner under these trees. What is your name?"

"Melinda," Melinda responded in a trembling voice, feeling another victorious cheer rise in her chest. "My name is Melinda Baker."

* * *

**NEXT: The writer of this fic continues to refuse writing any killer rabbits whatsoever into the story. Furthermore, weather the next chapter should be Marian/King/Carter/German dudes or Allan/Luke/Will/Djaq/French people, remains uncertain.**


	15. Chapter 14: Two cats and a rat

**Hey peeps! Sorry about the long wait... I really struggled with this chapter.**

**KeepingAmused: I quite like her too actually, but I tend to get a bit attached to my oc (even the nasty ones, they are my babies after all :p)  
Mizco: Actually the resemblances between Melinda and Robin is intentional. ;) You'll see what I have in mind eventually (nothing romantic or anything like that).  
DeanParker: lol I love the idea of Guy thinking Marian is a ghost looking for revenge, so funny. :lol:  
X-Kate-X: I know what you mean, I have a lot to do as well... Have hardly kept up with my fic reading lately... Thanx for the review anyway. :D  
Jess: Yay, one person that understood the killer rabbit reference lol. I got a lot of WTF! for that... Shouldn't write when I am tired lol.  
LoonyLover:Yup one more Swede, we area rarity in the rh fandom. ;) As for Melinda's plan it is a bit hazy atm. She is grieving and wants revenge but she tends to think one step at the time. Step one was getting into the camp. ;)  
Daze: lol yeah I can't have insane Robin all the story. The author's notes are written without any help from Word, and I'm usually tired and a bit sloppy when I write them. Thus there will be an error or two in them, but nm as long as people understand.  
Chanel: She doesn't know how to get revenge yet, but the key is trust I think. She is a woman and a bit manipulative like women can be at times. (I'm a woman myself but women tends to be a little bit less straightforward than men).  
Gatewatcher: Well, we'll see. ;) She might.  
LadyElsii: The killer rabbits was a rather odd monty python reference, sorry about that lol. I have no plans on killing anyone, not yet anyway. ;) **

**thanx for all the comments! Oh and this chapter and the next will be Marian and co. Then you will get Allan and Will and co in the chapter after that, because I really don't want to let any of the characters go. This is my last long rh fic (and it will be long) and I want everyone to have a part.**

**Enjoy,  
Trix **

* * *

**Chapter 14: Two cats and a rat**

_-In which there is much plotting and many random people who you will never meet again_

Marian didn't know if they stopped because they had reached their goal, or simply in order to hibernate though the cold season. In any case this was the Austrian village of Stuben and it seemed like an unlikely destination for such a long journey. The villages here were so similar that they seemed serialized to Marian, and Stuben's only individuality lay in that it had twice as many entry points. The two dozen houses that focused life in the valley were situated in a crossing; resembling a marked-out treasure on a map to the birds that hovered high above. One road went south, one east, one north and one northwest. The both northern roads led to Vienna and the other two disappeared into the dense forest. To the casual observer they appeared to be merely stray stubs without a destination. One fortnight ago Ritter Johann had installed their little retinue at the inn here, and arranged for Marian to stay with the servants. The sudden change of scenery had been a relief at first; then slowly started to expose the contrast between Marian's life and that of the locals.

Christmastide is a time of joy but this year Marian felt out of tune with the season. That it was a holiday only meant that the nostalgia was stronger, the memories vivid and warm. _This time last year_, her mind whispered and finished the sentence in any number of ways. It seemed like a curse that memories would hurt so much when they were her only solace. She had thought herself somewhat reconciled with her fate and safe in the fragile peace of mind that the day-to-day life had granted her. Now every Christmas she had ever experienced stretched out like a rosary behind her, crystal clear in their strict structure, and before her she saw the shadows of Christmases yet to come. They were templates ready to be filled in, thick with expectations and tradition._ This time five years ago_, the thoughts continued to plague her, _this time_ _six years ago_. This time, this year, her Christmas didn't follow the template. The sheer lack of everything she craved stripped her loneliness bare and exposed it like a sleeper.

The room was always freezing cold when she woke up. This morning wasn't different and she shivered where she lay on her stomach with her arms crossed under her chest. The dreams that chased her through the night had twisted the woollen blanket around her body, making her feel strangled and trapped when she woke with a twitch and a gasp for air. It was so early that the light was bluish in the room and the sun stretched its first rays above the horizon, much like Marian unfolded her stiff arms and reached towards the ceiling. She pulled the blanket closer around her and looked around at the shapes of the other servant girls, huddled into gray piles under the bedclothes. They slept tight together and kept the heat better than the mute stranger with the haunted blue eyes.

Marian put some logs in the hearth and knocked a piece of flint against the fire-iron until flames started to lick the wood, rubbing her hands together above the sparkles. If she had counted correctly it should be market day today, last market before Christmas. _This time last year I finished the embroideries on a shirt for my father_. Her lips pulled into a painful smile when she recalled the sloppy stitches and Sir Edward's grateful smile, only slightly amused when he gave her cheek a tender kiss and thanked her for the effort, if not the result.

Her mind stared to trail off into uncharted waters, and she shook her head violently to force herself back into the present rather than be tossed from wave to wave of random reminiscences. It was strange how one memory spurred another on like children playing tag, yet it somehow always ended with Robin. It was impossible to think of him without missing him and it was impossible to think without thinking about him. He seemed plastered to the inside of her skull, and she could see him in the shadows of every possible Christmas to come. He wasn't anywhere near her but he was everywhere inside her.

It was a hard knock on the door that finally awoke Marian from her pondering. She recognised the hard and determined thuds that made the hinges rattle, knowing that there was only one person who would wake the entire room by banging at the door in such a manner. She opened the door with a prolonged squeak and gazed into the cold eyes of Bruder Lukas

"Gutenmorgen," he snapped. He usually spoke to her like this, in hard commands that didn't hold any warmth yet weren't unfriendly. She made a coy little curtsey, reminding herself as she did every morning that she was a servant. Her role required humbleness and a certain bashful appearance, very different from the challenging intelligence of the real Lady Marian. "You will go to the market today and give this note to the apothecary," Lukas continued. "He will understand what it is I need. You understand, ja? Take the rest of the day off. We have business and do not require you."

Marian gave him a tense smile and took the note and some coins that were pressed to her palm, twitching as the brother's ice-cold fingers grazed her hand. She realised that she trembled not only from the cold, but from a vague feeling of apprehension that she couldn't quite grasp. There was something about Lukas this morning, a kind of restrained energy behind his movements that might be interpreted as eagerness.

"It is not your concern what it is," Lukas continued as she unfolded the note and watched the signs decorating it. It looked more like a cipher than words to her. "Keep the jar closed, don't smell or touch, you will be quite safe."

_Safe?_ She forced herself to smile again and bowed even though her heart pounded like a sledgehammer, telling her to run, to scream, to do anything but grin and nod. Why did he feel the need to point out that she was safe?! As Lukas disappeared down the corridor she shut the door and pressed her back against the hard wood. She took a couple of deep breaths then unfolded the note again, staring at the message with growing anxiety. She knew very little of these things, wasn't an alchemist or apothecary, but she didn't like the look of it.

"Was ist los?"

Marian flinched as saw one of the servants lean against the wall beside her to get a good look at the note. The woman – she was called Adela and was one of the senior workers at the inn - yawned and rubbed her eyes; then got something a little bit suspicious in her manners. She straightened and reached for the note, peering at the signs. Adela had certain poise because of her rudimentary medical knowledge, and Marian gladly showed the note to her.

"Gift!" Adela finally exclaimed. Marian frowned and shook her head. No it wasn't a gift. Did that even mean the same in German? The woman's face was painted in worry. "Gift!" she said again and nodded at Marian. "Gift, ja? Gift--" she frowned as she searched for the word in French. "Poison! Poison!"

Marian stared at her, mouthing the word without speaking out loud. _Poison._ If Adela said that this was poison then it must be so - the other maids held this woman's knowledge in high esteem. In a way it all made sense. She was safe if she didn't open the bottle, safe from the poison within. Bruder Lukas had said that he had business during the day, something that made him eager in spite of his serious nature. Who was the poison intended for? Marian's mouth felt dry as she tried to swallow the anxiety and her tongue seemed to swell until it felt difficult to breathe. This Christmas wasn't getting any better.

---

God had brought him here.

Bruder Lukas let that thought linger, tasted the sweet tang on his tongue as his mouth started to water and his head got light and tingling with expectation. The eagerness made his lips tense and he pressed out the energy into a hoarse Ave Maria, rubbing one of the buds on the rosary and lifting up the cross to give it a kiss. The awe held his entire body in a state of arousal and made him hard and soft by turns. He was so close to God that he could feel His hand resting on his shoulder. He had brought him here, to this Austrian town, and in this place his fate rested. To be precise his fate was some distance outside town, but it was approaching. Once this was done he could devote his life entirely to prayers, as he had been placed on this earth to do. It was a sense of power that men like Johann would never know; the knowledge that your words could cleanse humanity.

"Will the girl do her job?" Ritter Johann interrupted Lukas' thoughts where he went by his side. He was as always shrouded in the conceited manners that made Lukas cringe; speaking in a polished accent from southern Germany that sounded crude even though it was posh. "She is English after all," he continued. "A born barbaric although nicely packaged."

Lukas gave Ritter Johann a glance and felt a tang of sourness curling his tongue. If his mind was pure, Lukas thought with a sigh. Yet Johann's mind wasn't pure. Even though he acted - according by the best of his abilities - to follow God's laws on earth, his mind didn't follow. He lusted after that mute English servant girl as he had lusted after women all his life. In the end that was the reason why Lukas had accepted her as a member of their little retinue. She tested Ritter Johann's steadfastness every day she was near, and a man can only grow if he is constantly challenged. He could be near her and not take her, and in time he might be able to be near her and not even want her. That day he would be able to se what Lukas had known all his life; that love towards God was superior to every possible earthly passion.

"She has nothing here but us," he responded, and felt the tingle of excitement again. There was something appealing about the English maid, even though Lukas stood high above human sexuality. She had no voice, no home, no name, and because of that she was banished to her own mind. It was a kind of purity in that, the lack of earthly bonds; a person trapped in a secluded convent of her head. Yes, she would do her job and pick up the poison for them, and even if she didn't the plan wouldn't fall with her failure. Arrows could kill - if the aim was right - even if they weren't coated in poison.

They reached the Church about the same time that the sun started to admire itself in the glass that covered the narrow windows, and the floor was spotted by colourful pools of light. Lukas let his eyes dart around the room, passing from icon to pillar, until they fell on a figure who sat crouched by the Maria Dolorosa. The black cloth was draped around his body so that he looked shapeless and not quite human, but Lukas recognised the attire. As they moved closer he realised that the mumbling that came from the man's lips wasn't prayers, but a song. He heard the words '_bibunt omnes sine meta_', and cringed as he translated them into '_we drink without restraint_'. It seemed that in order to serve God you sometimes needed to travel on the same path as the devil. Lukas cleared his throat and the crouched figure ended the verse by jovially cursing everyone who made a profit on his drunkenness, formed a cross sign over his chest and unfolded his limbs. He was nearly as tall as Lukas when he stood straight and the face under the hood was gleeful and vivid with some dark curls falling down across his left eye. He shook his head to get rid of the hair and his face split into a wide smile.

"What!" he said in a clear English voice as he scrutinized the both German knights, who stood clothed in their usual tunics. "No black hoods? And I thought we had a dress code!"

Lukas felt his mouth tense in discontent and stretched out his hand with the ring. "The ring," he responded in his slightly slurred English accent. "You are Adam of Kent, ja?"

"Yes," Sir Adam smiled and let his hood fall back only to be replaced by a mane of raven curls. "You are _the bruder_, if I am not mistaken? Luke?" he gave Lukas' shoulder a thud and turned to Ritter Johann. "And who is this? No don't tell me - Your nun?" Lukas' dry response was drowned as the Englishman burst out laughing at his own joke, playfully shying away as if he was expecting a punch. Lukas silently asked the sad Madonna statue for forgiveness while the laugher bounced between the walls like trapped swallow. He should not have chosen the Church for this rendezvous.

"Enough wasting time," he snapped. "This is Ritter Johann, he does not speak your tongue. We shall get down to business."

Sir Adam mumbled something that sounded like 'spoilsport', although his face remained annoyingly jovial, and kneeled down again. He gestured at the two Germans to do the same.

"I for one am glad they do not make Madonna sculptures with nostril hair," he joked as he glanced up at the towering statue. "Now, the ball is on your side. Shoot."

Lukas frowned and tried to untangle the foreign statements until he realised that Sir Adam looked at him with a smug grin on his face. "We have arrows ready," he responded dryly. "We will shoot tomorrow. The king?"

"He is prepared," Adam nodded. "He stays in a smaller village for now, avoiding the crowds. I will make sure that we take the northern road tomorrow; all you have to do is be in the right place when he passes. The plan is practically waterproof, and that is more than you can say about my shoes."

"And Leopold?"

"Hm? Who? Oh, you mean Leopold of Austria. I wouldn't worry about old Leo, he may hold a grudge against the king but it is hardly the king's enemies we need worry about."

"If he gets his hands on the king he will be out of our control," Lukas insisted. This was his greatest fear. Towards Richard Lionheart's friends he could fire arrows, but if Duke Leopold got his hands on him the English monarch would be pulled into a mess of high politics. He might not be among allies and brothers, but rulers didn't simply slay each other. The bottom-line was that he would be out of Lukas' reach, and that meant that Lukas would fail in his divine mission.

"Yeah well, what can you do," Sir Adam shrugged. "We have travelled in disguise so I wouldn't worry too much. Leo doesn't even know that we are here for all I know."

"Good. Better leave it like that."

"We're not that far from Vienna are we?" Sir Adam interrupted the discussion by changing subject. Conversations easily bored him and he went from topic to topic as swiftly as he blinked. "We should celebrate when this is over, _in taverna_. Vaysey will pay well for this, very well indeed." He took on a pensive look, as if he was reminiscing, and started to hum on the Latin drinking song again. "It has been a lot of work getting this far," he continued, a little bit too cheerful. "I have paid off captains to make them take detours but you can't pay off the sea. Almost got myself killed once or twice. You have the easy part; all you have to do is fire an arrow."

"And then the lion falls," Lukas mumbled with another rush of excitement.

"Yes Richard is done for," Adam smiled. "It's an end of an era. Almost a bit sad really, he is a bit high and mighty but he does grow on you. Still, the money is good. Can't blame a man for wanting to suck the marrow out of life, can you?"

"The marrow?" Lukas repeated a bit puzzled in spite of not having any true interest in this man's ramblings.

"Yes you know - the juicy part. The crème de la crème of this pitiful world."

Lukas shut his eyes and forced his attention away from the Englishman. It was God that had chosen these men to help him in his mission; he had no right to doubt God's judgement. If God choose one man who lusted over anything female, and another who sang drinking songs in front of the grieving Madonna, then surely God had a plan. The sudden urge to bang his ally's head against the stone floor was merely the devil trying to taint his pure mind, and it had to be resisted.

"Well now, I for one need to get going," Adam continued and gave the Madonna little courteous bow as he rose. "My Lady, always a pleasure. Gentlemen, I will see you tomorrow with any luck. If you excuse me I have a king to suck up to. I wouldn't want to make him suspicious now – not after all the trouble I've had getting him here. It's bad enough that Carter keeps slandering me behind my back. He is the most terrible bore!"

Lukas realised that he had been squeezing the rosary so hard that the skin of his hand had indentations from the beads. Now that Sir Adam turned his back on the two men and danced his way towards the exit, Lukas softened the grip and let his body relax. The crouched position was natural to him after all the hours, days, years of intense prayer and he even savoured the burning pain in his knees. Passion was supposed to hurt, or one might get used to the frail human shell that bound you to this earth.

"We are ready?"

Lukas flinched by the sound of Johann's voice. For a moment he had been oblivious of the other man's presence and he now remembered that the knight had failed to understand most of the conversation. He gave him one fast nod before he turned to the Madonna again. Yes, they were ready. All left to do now was devote the hours up until the final stand to prayers. He needed to prepare his mind and soul for the purpose God had given him; the swift assassination of Richard Coeur de Lion.

----

"Richard is here! In Austria! In _my_ Austria!?"

Leopold V banged the jug to the table so violently that the deep red wine stained the cover. The maid - an efficient girl although of a slightly nervous disposition - rushed forward while mumbling 'I'm sorry milord' like a soothing mantra. She poured salt over the ugly spots and watched as the spice sucked up the wine and took on a rosy colour. It occurred to her - since she had an underdeveloped talent for art - that it complemented the shade of red fury in the duke's face.

"Are you quite sure?!" Leopold continued to fume. "He is here?! Now?!"

Apart from the normal congregation of servants and advisors there was a messenger in the room; a tall middle-aged man who was brashly eying how the maid's jellylike curves wobbled as she rubbed the cloth clean. Leopold had not taken this news with his normal humble kindness, he thought rather sarcastically. He had been around courts enough to consider high-politics much like royalties' family quarrels. In fact, considering how inbred the noblest of families were, that was probably true in most cases.

"Most likely on his way to his brother in law," he nodded. "He is dressed as a simple knight templar but his ring gave him away milord."

"His ring?"

"Yes milord. It was noted that he wore a very expensive ring - bright red and big as a rabbit's heart. Furthermore he had been indulging himself."

"Indulging himself?! In _my_ country!?"

"Yes milord. He has been eating roasted chicken and as you well know that is not a dish for commoners. May I remind your highness that we have been aware of the fact that he is rumoured to have been thrown off his course on the way back from the Holy Land." The messenger had a habit of speaking in long, monotone sentences without feeling the need to catch his breath. It had a way of making everyone in his presence feel a bit winded just by listening to him, and thus a collective sigh went though the room as he finished.

"He has been eating _my_ roasted chickens?!" the Austrian duke exclaimed. "In my county! The nerve!"

Yes, _the nerve_, the messenger thought and stifled a yawn. He rested his eyes on the maid again and silently wondered how kind she might be feeling after a couple of beers. He had frequently travelled as a courier from nobleman to nobleman and the duke's rage bored him. Apparently it all had to do with the murder of his cousin down in the Holy Land, but it was rumoured that it had more to do with personal humiliation. The duke had been occupied for some time with the slaughtering of Saracens (as well as the odd European who happened to confuse himself to the wrong side of the battlefield) but the outcome of all this bravery had been rather meagre. In any case, the result was that the stubborn duke had decided that King Richard was responsible for his cousin's murder and had to be punished. Now the king was on his premises and the duke was infuriated. After some more cursing and mentioning of all things that was his – be it chickens, roads, maids or beer - the rage slowly faded into a slightly healthier shade of pink.

"Well," he finished off, puffing for air as he shuffled the maid away from the stained tablecloth. "Don' fuss woman! This is men's business. Well, we must give Richard the welcome he deserves! Get my private guard mobilised, every single one of them in their finest costumes. Tomorrow we intercept the English murderer and take that cursed devil into custody!"

----

The village was covered in a thick layer of heavy, wet snow that mixed with the muddy square. Marian winced as her foot disappeared into another half-melted puddle and gave out a low moan. She had picked up the poison and now her mind was steaming as the thoughts fought from room in her overcrowded mind. There were too many things to think about and thus she failed to think at all. She knew that she was rash at times, too impatient to truly think things through, but she couldn't afford mistakes now. She might be gambling with the lives of strangers at best, and at worst the future of England. There wasn't a sign of the two black knights, even though a young man in a black hood brushed by her and made her entire body tense like a deer preparing its flight.

"Oh pardon, madam," the man said and flashed her a beaming smile.

It wasn't until he was gone that she realised that he had been speaking English, and then her anxiety turned into a wild torrent that made her head ache. For every new piece of this puzzle she managed to retrieve the picture grew and so did her ignorance. She leaned wearily against the stall and felt the edge press against her thigh. The market reminded her of Balthazar and the thought almost made her laugh because it was so pathetic. She seemed to give things up time and again, only to miss them when they were gone. She was the one who claimed that everything was a choice and yet she always chose the options that made her cry. Sometimes she wondered over all those times when she had told Robin to grow up; when in fact she had acted just as immature herself. The irony was that Robin made his choices with his heart, and she let the circumstances choose for her. So who was the advice for? For both of them, but only Robin listened.

Marian was too deep in thought to recognise the figure first. He seemed somehow unnatural, as if he had been cut out from a different setting and glued into this Austrian village. She frowned and tried to place him; a young man, smooth, agile movements, his hair blonde under the white coif. Blonde hair. Moved as a warrior. '_Carter'_, her mind whispered but common sense said no. He wore the clothes of a knight's templar; a red cross on white wool like rabbit's blood staining the snow. '_Carter!'_ her mind screamed, and this time her senses started to catch up. Carter! It was Carter! She pushed away the 'why' and the 'how' and focused on the simple fact that he was there. His hand rested lightly on the pommel when he crossed the square in a sort of nimble swagger that reminded her of Robin. '_Carter'_ she breathed, as if she somehow had to convince herself that it was actually him. If Carter was here then so was the king. The pieces of the puzzle stared at her and she realised that there was a structure there, something that she would grasp as soon as the buzzing stopped and her head didn't ache as much.

An old woman gave Marian an annoyed shuffle, signalling that she was in the way, and she moved a step to the side with an absent 'pardon'. It wasn't until later that it occurred to her that that had been the first proper word she had spoken in months. It was met with a demonstrative sigh and some muttering German phrases that she didn't understand, nor cared about. Carter was standing before her and she watched his face grow pale as his eyes met hers.

"Lady Marian!" he exclaimed, and lowered his voice at Marian's nervous hushing noises. He looked around and took a few swift steps to up to Marian who had backed in between two stalls. "But it cannot be!"

"Yet it is," Marian responded and realised that her whisper sounded amazed and out of breath. "Why can't it be?"

"Well," Carter stammered and broke off the sentence. He put a hand on her shoulder and removed it again as if he was surprised that she was solid. "It is you! It is…" He struggled for a while, starting a sentence just to leave it hanging with his mouth open. "I am sorry," he finally sighed and his face split into a sort of shocked smile. "I'm rude milady, but word has got out that you perished in a storm! We all believed you dead!"

"I think it is quite obvious that I am not."

"Yes, but Robin thinks," Carter stammered and Marian saw his face turn paler when he mentioned Robin. "My Lady, Robin believes you are dead! You must give word to him of your wellbeing!"

"Robin is alive?" Marian interrupted him. There was a smile on her lips, one that wouldn't be cowed in spite of the dire situation. "He is alive!" She repeated. "He is alive!"

"It seems everyone is alive," Carter laughed. "Yet he is not as lucky as us," he continued in a voice that switched from amazed to serious in a single breath. "He still believes you to be lost. It broke his heart, Marian."

"I did not wish to break his heart but over the sea I have no power."

"Nor does the king of England it seems," Carter responded and a shadow went over his face. "We were shipwrecked as well, just off the coast of Aquelia of all places. To this day I do not know what we did so far off course."

"The king of England," Marian sighed wearily. "Does not even have the power over England in this moment."

"That may be true but he is on his way home, and when he is restored there will be peace at last."

Marian frowned. There was something here that worried her, a mystery where she had all the clues but not the result. It felt a bit like forgetting a word; you knew that you knew it but still you couldn't find it. Then her hand accidentally grazed the little container with poison and it all became crystal clear in one terrifying moment.

"The king!" she exclaimed. "Carter we have to get word to him! The king needs to leave this place now, he is not safe!"

"What do you mean?"

"It's—there is no time to waste on this. If you trust me then believe my warning to be honest and back me up in front of his majesty. Will you support me?"

Carter's face was hard and tense with worry as he listened to Marian, but for the first day in a very long time Marian was faced with a person who understood her. He knew her war, shared her values, trusted her judgement. Carter's hand closed around her arm and he nodded intently.

"Yes," he responded in a strained voice. "Robin chose you for a reason milady, and I will support you. This way. Let's not make the king wait."

* * *

**NEXT: Poor Richard, everyone is out to get him. Will he be hit by a poisoned arrow? Will he be seized by the Austrian duke? Or will he get away with the help of our heroes?**


	16. Chapter 15: The ring and the arrow

**So here is the new chapter, it is long and may be a bit confusing for the sloppy reader perhaps... Hope you like it anyway.**

**Dina: Yeah I think winter is interesting here b/c even the weather is against them hehe.  
Mizco: Erhm... Well things get more complicated in this chapter...  
Deannie: Please don't kill me after this chapter :lol: Promise, Robs won't be unhappy much longer. Really!  
Chanel: Historically he does make it back but it takes 2 years lol. I will twist it a bit, two years is a bit too long for the time frame I think.  
Kate: Errr yeees... Among friends... :lol: well yes, her situation is better now, for a while at least. And it won't be as bad as it was.  
LadyElsii: Y, it is one step closer to poor Robin.  
Nimaranel: Aww ty. My heart was broken too, that is my reason for writing this.  
Jaqueline: Well, I wouldn't know since I'm not watching s3. This is it for me, got enough angst irl, I don't need it from a bloody family show.  
KeepingAmused: Yeah I like Crater too. :drooling over my laptop:D  
Daze: Soz about the long wait... Well, reasonably long wait anyway.  
Jess: Well the reunion is... closer for every chapter :-p And I am boycotting s3 actually.  
Gatewatcher: Well, yes... England is certianly closer now anyway :p**

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Ring and the Arrow**

_-In which Marian is unimpressed and the title certainly isn't any kind of innuendo_

The first thing that caught her attention was the ring.

Marian's eyebrows lifted into two arches that crumpled her forehead until it looked ploughed like a field. It was the kind of dusky tavern that she had seen a hundred times over; the smoke only partially escaped out of the chimney and instead it painted the damp air gray and made it come alive. It moved in restless twirls around the single party that took up space in the room; three men clothed like crusaders but with manners that clashed with the humbleness of their attire. These were men in hiding who still expected to be seen and heard clearer than anyone else, and then there was the ring. It rested next to a wooden plate that harboured the leftovers from a feast; a huge red stone that caught the sparkles from the fire and refined them into a ruby glow. 

"You call this a disguise?" Marian murmured with an astonished smile. 

"What do you mean?" Carter asked and Marian realised that she had been speaking out loud what she intended to keep to herself. They were standing in the darkness of the doorway; their faces a mosaic with some pieces were illuminated by the fireplace and others cloaked by the shadows. There was a maid serving the party another round of wine, and they waited patiently for her to leave.

"Never mind," Marian smiled in response and they turned their attention to the king again, careful not to make any swift movements. 

Even though she wasn't of a nervous disposition the flapping wings of a thousand butterflies made Marian's stomach fizzle. In one way or another, this was the end - and she did not know what would replace it. No more impersonating a mute servant, no more fraternising with the enemy, no more uncertainty. She had the king of England before her and it opened up doors that she had believed shut long ago. Robin was alive, the king was a live, _she_ was alive. England was no longer merely a memory or a dream; it was a goal, fabulously real and so close she could almost reach out and touch it. _If I could I would put a red ribbon around the king's waist and bring him back to Robin like a present._ The thought came with a bubbling laughter that she stifled with some effort. She behaved like a giggling teenage girl, and it clashed with the seriousness of the situation. 

At last the maid disappeared into the kitchen and Carter stepped out from the shadows, making their presence known. The conversation between the false Knights Templars died out and the looks were drawn towards the newcomers like ducks to breadcrumbs. Carter's shadow fell across the table and dimmed the glow from the king's ring.

"Brother Carter," King Richard said in a joking manner that seemed to make the young knight slightly uncomfortable. "You bring a woman, and it is fair to say she does not much resemble a nun."

"Are you blowing our cover Carter?" another of the men murmured and there was a choir of laughers cutting through the room. 

"Forgive me," Carter responded. "May I present Marian. She is a friend of mine." 

"There is a grave matter that must be addressed," Marian added impatiently, and made a twitchy curtsey towards the king as she stepped closer to the table. "You need to listen, it is…"

"You speak English," the king burst out with a look that seemed irritated and a bit angered. Marian swallowed the sentence that was hanging on her tongue and mentally cursed herself for speaking too swiftly and without consideration. The joking atmosphere had been replaced by surprise, and she bent down her head in a gesture of meekness that had become like a second skin for her. "You speak English very well," he repeated a bit softer. "And your pronunciation is too refined to be a commoner, am I right?"

"Well, you are the king," Marian said with a smile. "I do not think you can be wrong. Your majesty could rewrite history if he wished."

The joke plummeted down into the atmosphere like a stone, and for a moment Marian held her breath and counted the seconds that passed. Then a smile broke King Richard's face and his broad shoulders shook in a rolling laughter. 

"Indeed! If I say you are nobility then you would be a fool to deny it," he agreed with a grin. "But you are a born lady as it happens, are you not?"

"Lady Marian Fitzwalter," she responded calmly and met his look as she scanned it for any sign of recognition. She knew that Robin had a close relationship to the king, but had he mentioned her? The king seemed bewildered at first, as if he tasted the name and tried to link it with the right memories. "Lady Marian of Knighton," she clarified. "That is in the vicinity of Nottingham town."

"Yes, yes," King Richard snapped impatiently. "I have no interest in your local geography, but I have heard of you…" He drummed his fingers to the table and the movements made the ring tap against the wooden plate, craving her attention once again. It was a truly ghastly piece of jewellery. "Ah!" the king finally exclaimed. "Robin of Locksley spoke of a Lady Marian. But surely you are not her?"

"Surely I am," Marian sighed. Not a day had passed on her journey back to the life she longed for, and she already felt sick of convincing people that she was alive. 

"Your Majesty, I can second that. I have met her prior this, and she truly is who she claims to be," Carter agreed and Marian felt a wave of gratitude. "The story is long and no doubt intriguing, but we have no time for lengthy explanations."

The king cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Carter, sometimes I fear that if the roof over my head was on fire, then people would still stop to bow and exchange courtesies before they get to the crucial matter! If it is so urgent then what are you waiting for?" 

Carter took a step back and nodded at Marian, who took it as a key to speak. A moment ago she was chastised for talking too soon and now they were reprimanded because they did not speak soon enough. There was no pleasing some people, she mused and tried not to roll her eyes. _Men._

"Your majesty," she said after swiftly scanning the room for any unwanted company. "As I said, you are in grave danger…" 

----

Marian told her tale without interruption. It was the short version, and she could almost feel the unspoken questions tugging on her attention. _It isn't important_, she reminded herself time and again. _They need not know why I served the black knights as a mute servant, just that I did._ The price of this hurry to get to the point was suspicion and unjust judgement of her character, but that could not be helped. Even Carter frowned, wondering how far she went with the male company on her journey here, but he still backed her up. When she was done the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of the king's ring against the plate. Marian realised that she had started to breathe in the same beat, and when it stopped she held her breath without thinking about it.

"Well," King Rickard finally said. "It is quite a story, Lady Marian. You have great men to vouch for you, and because of that I have decided to take your warning seriously. We will leave first thing in the morning."

"In the morning!" Marian exclaimed. "But that is too late! When they see that I am gone they might even change their plans and come sooner rather than later! With all due respect, we have to leave now!"

"Are you giving me orders?" the king snapped and Marian recoiled as if she had been slapped.

"Forgive me," she murmured and bowed her head. "I was out of line."

"So you were," King Richard agreed with a frown. "For a mute woman you speak quite forcefully! Let it be known that we leave tomorrow, and that is my final word –the king's final word. I recognise no other superiority than God!" 

"But what if it _is_ known that we leave tomorrow?" Marian responded, although more to herself than the party of men. "Is that not the problem?" The knights exchanged looks across the table and Marian bit her lip. She had been silent for months and as soon as she got her tongue back it said all the wrong things! Perhaps it had been her blessing to be dumb.

"We are Knights Templars, little one," the most senior of the knights finally snorted in a decisively patronising manner. "No one will notice. Besides, Sir Adam is yet to return; we can hardly leave without him."

"No," Marian reluctantly agreed, deciding to cave in to the futility of the situation. "Then I guess we must wait."

----

It was late in the evening when the two German black knights realised that the mute maid wasn't returning. Ritter Johann cursed and threw things round the room; his face red with fury as mugs bounced off the walls and spilled out golden ale all over the splintered floorboards. In the other end of the oblong room Bruder Lukas remained deadly calm and callous throughout the ordeal. He was weighing the short crossbow arrows one by one and felt the steal against his thumb. They were sharp enough till kill a king, with or without poison. The devil got to the woman, he should have guarded her more closely but it was too late for regret. He felt a wave of disdain towards her female weakness; so soft her skin and her mind so easily diverted. With a vague feeling of awe he watched the knight toss another plate into the wall and wondered if he should continue this mission on his own instead. Perhaps his companions had been nothing but traps to try his devotion to the cause? He folded his hands and asked God to lead him right in his confusion but there was no response. This was the end of his mission and he had to deal with it without divine intervention, he realised with a pang of immense loneliness that shook the very core of his being. Still, if this was a test then he needed to defeat the obstacles as they came along, and Ritter Johann was still not more than a minor nuisance. _Lord give me strength_, he mumbled under his breath and moved his hand to the next bead on the rosary. 

---

The night that passed was restless. It was restless for the praying Bruder Lukas and his raging companion. It was also restless for a certain Austrian duke who was spurring his horse on towards his unwanted visitors; that damned King of England who dared roam through his lands. He grinned in anticipation as the old familiar buzz of a coming battle started to take over his senses, crazed by revenge and the knowledge of a swiftly approaching triumph. In truth he had no plan to kill the king - it would be far too risky - but there were other ways to win this battle. He held all the cards and was edgy for a chance to play them against his enemy.

At the inn the king of England slept a restless sleep, although more because of too much heavy food than any real concerns. You did not survive years of war without developing some smugness in the face of danger, trusting it to work out in the end as it always did. Outside his door the night was even more restless for Carter who sat awake and guarded his master, and beyond the wall Marian spent these fidgety hours staring at the moon. Perhaps it was the last moon she would ever see, she mused with a rush of fear that kept her wide awake. Although - if one thought upon it rationally - it was the same moon every night so what difference did such fear make? The moon was there before all this happened and would remain long after her world was gone. Her body trembled as she gave up the last futile attempts to get some sleep and she got dressed in the bluish light of the night.

She found Carter on a rickety stool; his curved back brushed against the king's door and the sword rested like a bridge between his knees. He was carving on something with movements that seemed fast and slightly uncontrolled, and his face was creased by worry. 

"No sleep?" he murmured as Marian appeared by his side, but he didn't tilt his pale face to great her with a look. It appeared to Marian that he seemed a bit callous. Although it was in a strictly professional rather than unfriendly way it clashed with his normal, gentle manners towards her.

"No," she responded. "The moon was too bright."

Carter gave out a snorting laughter. "And was the moon not too bright when you travelled with the German knights then?" he asked with something that seemed like resentment in his tone. "You must have spent many nights unsheltered in the forest." 

"I must have," Marian frowned as she tried to read between the lines. She didn't know Carter well enough to understand what the problem was; only enough to know that there _was_ a problem. She wondered weather she should ask him, but decided against it for fear of making things worse. Instead she pretended that the tension wasn't there and sat down next to him. 

"I have been meaning to ask something of you Carter," she said. 

"What is it?" 

The cold lack of interest in his voice didn't escape Marian's attention, but again she pretended not to hear it. "Things may happen on the way back," she continued instead. "And if it does, fate may return you safe to England but have me perish on the way." She hesitated and cocked her head towards Carter. He had stopped carving and was listening to her, still a bit distant but not nearly as passive aggressive as before.

"You have a message for Robin?" he wondered and Marian nodded gratefully. 

"Nothing special," she said. "Just that—you have to make sure that he doesn't give up, Carter. I want him to keep fighting. Will you tell him that? Will you look after him for me?" 

Carter frowned and nodded, turned his attention to the item in his hand and started to carve again. "Yes," he responded, and Marian cringed at the icy tone that had returned with renewed strength. "I will make sure he keeps on fighting if you do not return."

Marian swallowed and braced herself for what was about to come, taking a deep breath before she continued to speak. This had to be said, but it was so difficult! To admit this - to tell it to a man who was little more than a stranger none the less - felt so horribly intimate that she trembled. She took a deep breath, and then forced herself to find courage. "I miss him," she smiled and choked on the words. Her hushed voice sounded naked and vulnerable in a way that it hadn't been for years. So foolish! It was only words - they couldn't hurt her. "I miss him," she repeated a bit louder. "Will you tell him that I have missed him? I love him, Carter. Do not laugh, I know this words are common enough—no," she smiled and realised frustrated that tears were filling up her eyes. "No they are not nearly common enough... We were always so far apart - I do not even know if I ever told him how much he—how much he means. I have walked when I thought I could never walk again, I have breathed when thought I would suffocate." Marian swallowed and pushed up her knees towards her stomach, locking them with her arms so that her body became a fortress. When she was a girl she used to sit like that when she was sad, curled up like a hedgehog protecting its softest side. "I was too proud to love, but I do. I do love him. I love him so very much." She nodded and smiled at Carter, suddenly realising that the callousness was gone. Instead there was empathy in his face when he looked down at her and gave her a strained smile.

"You will get the chance to tell him that yourself," he responded in a rare air of sentimentality. "Fate cannot be so cruel as to part you before you get a chance to truly be together." Carter hesitated as if he was going to say something more but breathed out a deep sigh instead of the intended words. The silence that followed was not nearly as tense as it had been before, but it still seemed thick with unspoken questions. 

"I want you to know I never shared their bed," Marian blurted out with a sentence that started forcefully then trailed of into hesitation. Almost instantly she wondered why she had felt the need to provide him with that piece of information. The words took Carter by surprise and his forehead was furrowed in shock. "The German knights," she clarified. "I want you at least to know that it was innocent. Right now you are the closest I get to Robin. It has been dull months, but not particularly traumatic." As soon as she had admitted that she realised that is was true. In spite of everything she had been in luck, almost incredible luck. Carter blushed slightly, seemingly ashamed, and Marian's lips pulled into a smile. So that had been his problem with her. He was Robin's friend and he had wondered how far she had gone. How strange it was. You could kill in cold blood and be praised like a hero, but as soon as your virtue was tainted the world suddenly became unforgiving - scorned and pitied you in turns.

There was a sound of a door opening in the house and Marian looked towards the window. It must be morning, but during this season it was dark long after it should be light. She stretched her body and felt that her limbs were stiff and easily tired; the lack of sleep had rewarded her body with a weakness that wouldn't yield through the day. 

"Get ready," Carter said to Marian as he knocked at the door to the king's room. "The house is waking up. It is time for departure."

--- 

The branches of the trees hung heavily over the crest; sagging spruces weighed down by a wet quilt that fell in sheets into the narrow gouge. The place was surrounded by the eerie stillness of a slumbering winter landscape, yet that alone could not explain Marian's intense feeling of anxiety. Surely it could not be the sharp shadows or the crispness of the untouched snow that startled her? Perhaps the time with Robin hade caused her to view nature much like a bandit's tool; saw locations for ambushes or hideouts where other people merely saw hills and bushes, and always had an eye open for the back door. There was no way out of here and that was her real worry. It was just a short distance to the end of the narrow passage but while they were here they wandered through a death-trap. 

"…are empathic where men are rational, women caring where men are strong…"

Marian tore her attention from the steep cliffs and forced herself to appear interested in Sir Adam's ramblings. The raven haired nobleman rode beside her in an air of light-hearted chivalry, bouncing from one subject to another in a seemingly random manner. In a different setting she would have found his company pleasant, but at the time being the complete lack of any kind of worry in his countenance merely annoyed her. 

"Women are not rational?" she thus questioned him with a sarcastically raised eyebrow. His way of praising the female sex was to ascribe it a range of clichéd qualities. 

"Ah, but empathy first," he smiled in response. "Rationality second. It's a good thing! Too much rationality would doom humanity. Love and empathy is for fools, and where would this world be without fools? No, foolishness is underrated, as indeed is womanhood."

"And men are not empathic?"

"We cannot allow ourselves too much empathy. Your tender hands have never felt the weight of a sword my lady, you would not understand." 

Marian couldn't help smiling at the last statement; what little men knew about the nature of women! She raised her eyes to the crest again, absentmindedly noticing that Adam had started to tell a nasty story about Eve and the snake in paradise. It was hardly meant for her ears because he had turned to the male part of the little retinue. As he reached the punch line a choir of roaring laughter echoed between the steep walls, causing a big chunk of heavy snow to collapse down beside the already edgy horses. It was about then that the string that held the world snapped. 

---

Four days before Christmas 1192, in a gorge not far from Vienna, the king of England rode a white steed that had been purchased from an Italian farmer. It wasn't a bad animal all in all, although he had seen better days and was rather easily startled. Carter had tried to insist that the king should have ridden his horse - a steady brown mare - but the king had jokingly exclaimed that he'd be damned before he mounted a woman. Thus he impatiently pressed his thighs to the steed's trunk and whipped the reins against his throat when anxiety made the animal act wilfully. 

On the crest on the gorge a German Knights Templar sat crouched behind a tree. His bony hands were steady when he put the foot in the bow's stirrup and drew the string by straightening his legs. He had a rosary in his hand – the beads making indentions in the fragile skin on his palm – and in the stern face only the lips moved as they whispered a tense prayer. Ritter Johann stood behind him and held the arrows as well a traditional longbow, should the crossbow arrow fail to hit its target. The longbow was faster to draw, but while the crossbow arrows were small enough to penetrate chain-mail, the clumsier longbow arrows had no such guarantee. They saw the party from above; the snow untouched like the mother of Christ in front of them while the horses' hooves left a dishevelled trail where they had wandered. Half way through the gorge the snow would soon be stained by royal blood; as red as the blood of a slaughtered deer, because all flesh was the same in death. Bruder Lukas' breathing had become laboured and a bit wheezing from the tension, but there was no fear. The snow didn't feel cold against his body when he pressed it too the ground and aimed the arrow at the approaching party. In this mission his body was nothing. His knees didn't ache from the hours of kneeling down in prayers, not did the hunger roar through the body that hadn't been fed for days. He recognised Adam of Kent, first from the voice that echoed between the cliffs, and then he saw the raven curls that fell down across the constantly gleeful face. He was riding behind the king as they had planned it; the man on the edgy white horse. Next to Adam a woman rode and the German bruder mentally cursed her, reminding himself to save an arrow for her heart if he had the chance. It seemed she had played them with all the power of manipulation her sex possessed, and in his willingness to trust her innocence he had been an easy target. 

Bruder Lukas cringed as he heard Sir Adam's blasphemous story echo and reach his ears, building up towards the punch line as they closed in on the trap. The story peaked and was replaced by roaring laughter; multiplied as it bounced from wall to wall. Behind him Ritter Johann chuckled and leaned towards the heavy spruce so that a big sheet of snow collapsed down into the gorge. There was a wet thud as the load hit the ground, and then Lukas released the arrow. 

---

The snow startled the horses. 

Marian threw herself over the crest of her fox brown mare as it made a leap forward and she caught a glimpse of the king's grey stallion. It reared into the sky - which was nothing but a blue stripe between the cliffs - and a calming 'woo' escaped the king's lips. Yet his attempts to sooth the animal was in vain. Once startled the stallion was unstoppable, it set off into a wild flight and Marian pressed her legs to her own horse to spur it on. _Follow the king_, her mind yelled through the chaos. She never saw the arrow that passed over her back, gently kissing the air above her shoulder blades, and drilled itself deep into Sir Adam's thigh. She didn't realise that Carter screamed for her to _look after the king _as his horse had jumped to the side and threw him off into the deep snow. 

---

Bruder Lukas didn't curse. He merely pressed his lips tight together and felt an overwhelming sensation of failure. The aim wasn't bad. It really wasn't! He just couldn't have anticipated that the horses should be so startled by the falling snow. Instead of hitting the king the arrow hit whatever took up room where he had expected the king to be. Thus Sir Adam's scream cut through the gorge - a shrill yelp of surprise and pain – as the real target disappeared down the passage. Too late! It was too late! The only people that were left in the gorge were Sir Adam, who had dismounted and was pressing a hand to his wounded leg, and a blonde man who had fallen off his horse. They looked pitiful but he had no reason to kill them. Adam's blood stained the dishevelled snow and the blonde knight held a comforting palm to his back as he gazed off towards the disappearing king. 

"Scheisse!" Ritter Johann exclaimed and gave his companion a bewildered look. The longbow in his hand was half-drawn, but it had all gone too fast for him to aim and release it. Yes. Scheisse. That pretty much covered it up, had Bruder Lukas been one to curse. Now he quickly gathered his thoughts and started to dash off towards the two rented horses. With a little luck they could still catch the king, and there was not a chance that he would stop until his mission was completed. 

--- 

Marian followed close behind the king. She knew that the other knights must be somewhere behind her but she couldn't see them. There was a bird hovering high above, a dark shape against the blue sky, and she recognised the muscular build as the one of a predator. For a moment it seemed so cruel. Animals learned to fly in order to get away and then God gave wings to their hunters. There were no safe corners in this wicked world. 

As they came out from the gorge the forest was thick around them and the king's stallion was finally slowing down. Marian caught up with him when the horses fell into a nervous trot – occasionally disrupted by random bursts of gallop – and she realised that she was exhausted. Her tired mind was slow to react and her muscles ached now that she allowed herself to relax.

"Your Majesty," she panted. "Are you well?"

"Never better," King Richard responded, and his face was grinning when he looked at her. "Nothing like a refreshing ride through the forest." He turned around and started at the road that disappeared into the bushy vegetation. "You were the only one who managed to keep up with me? Well done Lady Marian, I may have to employ more women in the future." 

Marian managed a tired smile but it turned out to resemble a grimace more than anything. She was worried about Carter, and even more worried to be the only one present to protect the king. _Protect him_. Did he need protection? There was something about all this that seemed out of place, a little bit wrong somehow. Where were the other knights? Shouldn't they be here by now? The forest was silent around them save a screech from the predatory bird as it dived down like a projectile below the treetops and out of sight. Marian's heart was throbbing hard and fast in her chest, a drum against her torso. Then finally there was a rustling of chain-mail and the sound of horses approaching.

"Well," King Richard said and dismounted. "That will be them."

Marian frowned as she slid down from the horse and peered into the forest. Wrong. Something was wrong, and the feeling refused to be cowed by reason. Perhaps Sir Adam was right. Perhaps women weren't rational.

But the knights that appeared weren't their knights. The clothes were not the right clothes. "No," she whispered. "No, no this cannot be! Who are they?"

She spun around and realised that there were more men; glimpses of chain-mail between the trees that turned into soldiers with drawn bows or swords pointing at the king. They were surrounded, and it wasn't Bruder Lukas or Ritter Johann. This was an army. She looked at the king and saw that his face was grim and troubled. He shuffled away his cloak and reached for the sword belt, loosening the buckle and tossing the weapons to the ground. 

"Do you carry any weapons?" he asked Marian, who wordlessly removed the knives she carried with her and let them fall down into the snow. King Richard had spread out his arms, as if he wanted to show that he was unarmed, and faced with this army she did the same. 

The men on the road had reached them, and she saw that they led two horses behind them with bodies thrown across the saddles. Unlike the men who emanated from the forest these men were mounted, and at least one was dressed in the fine clothes of a nobleman. She stared at the bodies that hung limp across the two led horses. Her stomach twisted as she recognised their attires as being the same Knights Templar clothes as the king's retinue were disguised in. _Carter?_ Yet she soon realised that it wasn't Carter, not was it Sir Adam. It was the other two men that had accompanied their king on this journey; the lords of Adlestone and Barnsbury. The relief went like a shock through her body, followed by a pang of guilt and finally terror. She looked at King Richard and it occurred to her that the look in his face was one of irritation rather than fear. 

"Well, well, well," the man in a nobleman's clothes said and dismounted. He spoke with a distinct German accent but it seemed less refined than Count Fredrick's or even Lukas'. "Too meet like this? Not expected I would say!"

Marian frowned and turned to King Richard's stern face.

"Who is this?" she questioned, intentionally leaving out his title for fear of revealing too much. "You know this man?" 

"Yes," the king grunted with a wry smile. "Yes, Lady Marian. This man, who had so cruelly and unnecessarily killed two of our friends, is a man that I know very well. A man who I have fought the same war as even. May I present Leopold V, Count of Austria. It pains me to say it, but I think he has come to arrest me for murder." 

* * *

**NEXT: Wouldn't you like to know heh, heh…**


	17. Chapter 16: Intermezzo

**Right there are so many commenting on this, so I won't answer everyone personally this time. I'll just respond to the questions. ;) **

**Robin and co is coming back in the next chapter. There will be a bit of Guy there as well, Charlemagne. I have a oneshot with him up as well, but it is a rather nasty version of Guy in that one. **

**_Carter is not dead_. He and Sir Adam were left behind in the gorge when Marian and the king was captured. The other two knights in the king's retinue was killed. **

**KeepingAmused, there will be more Djaq/Will, I promise. Just not yet. It will be a lot less angsty than the first bit about them. :) **

**Daze, I have always found it more interesting with heroines that are forced to use whatever means they have. You don't have to carry a sword to be a strong character. **

**So this chapter is rather light and funny. It is Allan/Luke b/c I want to give every character a role. :D**

**All comments are love.  
Big hugs to Jas for helping me w this chapter. **

**xxx  
Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 16: Intermezzo**

_-In which there is a French girl, a hairpin, a church and… stuff_

"Une rose pour la rose de vouz coeur, monsieur?" Griet de Sael smiled as she nimbly swung her curvy body in the young man's way. The hairpin in her hand had originally been crafted to resemble a detailed rose, although time had worn the petals blunt and vague so that only a general shape remained. Granted it was not an item that a young man would find much use for, but while no woman would buy such junk men could sometimes be dazzled by charm. The first move was to establish eye contact - aggressive but not hostile - then she fell back to avoid him feeling cornered. A successful merchant must seem humble yet remain impossible to shake off.

The young man's face was pretty and honest, but had a slightly forlorn expression that became even more pronounced as he turned towards her. He wore the clothes of a pilgrim, sturdy wool garments that were patched up and obviously sewn for a smaller man. Griet occasionally acquired her trinkets under rather dubious circumstances, and it always made her grateful when she found a customer to be merely a visitor in the town. The young man had a rather muscular build, but his strength was of the well-grounded and humble sort. He might have been born into a physically challenging profession, like the son of a blacksmith or a woodsman. In spite of the robust appearance his face held an air of insecurity, almost bashful and a bit vulnerable in its openness. She smiled warmly and held out the hairpin to him, repeating her phrase as she shoved her hip and the basket forward.

"Une rose pour la rose de vous coeur, monsieur? Non?"

"Une—uh. No, thank you," the young man stammered and his ears took on a red tone that spread down his neck. "Non merci."

"Oh," she grinned sweetly as she realised that her customer was English. "It is your lucky day, monsieur. Not only do I have this unique hairpin in my hand, but there is a special discount for northerners."

"You speak English!" the man stated rather unnecessarily.

"No, you are mistaken. It is you that have learned French."

Griet watched in amusement as the thoughts wandered over the young man's face. First bewilderment, then suspicion and finally a smile broke through his sombre appearance.

"Oh," he smiled between his blushing cheeks. "It's a joke. I'm sorry. I would buy something if I had any money, but—well." He bit down on his lip and let his eyes stray from Griet, not sure where to focus his attention. "Have you—have you seen any other Englishmen?" he asked shyly. "I have lost my friend, somewhere."

"You are the first Englishman I have met since I was a young lass. My father was English," Griet explained. "I grew up there. Your kind is scarce here I fear."

"He said he was going to fix our money problem," the young man murmured. "I don't know. It's just that when he fixes things they sometimes get worse."

Griet's laughter was chirping and flirtatious, one that came with practice rather than nature, and as an effect the blush on the young man's face spread further down his jaw line. He lowered his eyes to avoid her face but twitched when they accidentally grazed over her chest instead. Griet was an utterly female woman with a soft and curvy appearance and a perfectly round face. Her waist was comparatively narrow over the rounded hips and she wore her bosom much like a trophy, arching her back slightly so that it was more or less shuffled into people's faces. The two spherical eyes seemed deceivingly innocent in all their pale blueness, and her lower lip was ample and often slightly crackled since she had a habit of chewing on it when she let her concentration slip. As an effect people either stared at her or avoided looking at her at all, not sure how to react to the sheer opulence of her appearance. She let the basket with the trinkets slide down from her rounded hip and placed it by her feet, allowing her posture to be more relaxed now that she didn't have a sale to push.

"Your friend sounds like more trouble than he is worth," she smiled to the English boy.

"No, he is nice. He is just a bit—just a bit too much sometimes." The young man seemed rather embarrassed over this revelation, and Griet waited for the hurried excuses that were bound to follow. "But he is nice," he continued. "He is helping me to get my brother back from the Holy Land, well, if we could find the way. It's all a bit—random right now. Oh," he brushed his hand on his cloak, and reached it out. "I am Luke by the way. Luke Scarlett."

"Griet de Sael," Griet smiled and took his hand, trying not to cringe when she felt his palm cold and sweaty against hers.

"Griet," he repeated to himself. "I'm sorry if I talk too much. It's just that I don't understand a word of this southern French you know. We did alright in Normandy, well, better anyway. Allan talks so much that he usually gets one or two words across, even if it is mostly by chance."

"It's the _langues d'oc_ they speak here - I can imagine they sound very foreign to an Englishman. You should not excuse yourself so much Luke Scarlett. It only draws attention to your mistakes, just like a woman lacking confidence will draw attention to her less attractive sides. I do not mind practising my childhood tongue. Where in England are you from?"

"Scarborough," Luke smiled and his face took on an air of nostalgia. "Ever been there?"

"Well, I had a father in Scarborough," Griet responded with a crooked smile. "Then I had one in London, one in York—one in Nottinghamshire. My mother was a generous woman – she did not think one father was quite enough."

"Nottinghamshire!" Luke exclaimed. "Where?! It's just that I used to live in Locksley, before we had to leave."

"Not Locksley?" Griet responded with a rather shocked laughter. "Surely you cannot be from Locksley! You must know Sir Robert!"

"The old lord Locksley? I do. I did. I knew of him. I was quite young when he passed but I do remember. It was before things turned bad back home. Why?"

"Well," Griet hesitated. "Well, that is a long story - and one that has no moralistic sentiment I'm afraid. It's—the short version is—well, let's just say that he was one of my mother's old friends."

Griet turned away from Luke, silently cursing herself for telling him too much. She had woken his interest now, but she had no desire to explain her mother's shady life to him. He was not the kind of man who would understand it. Still; Locksley of all places! What were the odds? Griet's eyes fell on a man who made his way through the crowd as she murmured some absentminded responses to Luke's questions. There was an air of smug triumph about him, as someone who had successfully conned a person and gotten away with it. He swaggered in a sort of sloppy suppleness and the grin that split his face was cocky and brash. While he wandered he tossed a coin into the air and caught it again; one smooth movement that Griet recognised in tavern tricksters and street magicians. He wasn't traditionally attractive but there was something about him that sparked her curiosity.

"Is that your friend?" she asked, as it started to occur to her that the man with the cocky smile didn't divert as she had expected, but rather continued towards them. Surely he wasn't aching to buy trinkets, not a man like that. Men like that preferred stealing and conning their way through life. Much like her - if one was honest about it.

"Yes," Luke sighed. "That is Allan. Allan-a-Dale. Just, don't mind him if he says something—something indecent." He blushed again and Griet stifled a laughter; cocking her eyebrow as the man called Allan stopped by them and looked her approvingly up and down. He gave out a low whistle.

"Luke, I have underestimated you! Who's the bird!?" he grinned.

"Well, her name is Griet," Luke mumbled. "She sells stuff. And she grew up in England, she says."

"Really? Not being funny but she just keeps getting better. Well, go on then. What do you 'ave in that lovely basket of yours?"

Griet realised that she must be looking rather foolish - her eyes creased into a sarcastic frown while her mouth grinned dumbly – and her hand trembled a little as she reached out the hairpin. "Perhaps a rose for the rose of your heart, monsieur?" she smiled sweetly.

Allan tossed her the coin that he had been playing with and Griet watched it reflect the sun before she caught it gracefully in her palm. "Handle it with care," Allan smirked. "It's my lucky coin that." He took the rose that was pinched between Griet's fingers, then cupped her cheek and tilted her head to the side. His hands were rougher than she had expected from a tavern trickster, warm and dry against her skin, and she felt the pin scrape her scalp as he twisted a lock of her hair around it. "There you go." He smiled as she straightened her neck and felt the curls strain against her head. "Looks better on you than it does on me."

"I'm the rose of you heart?" Griet laughed.

"Yeah, why not. One lass in every harbour, that's a vagrant's solace innit?"

"I think that might be a vagrant's curse," Griet corrected him with a sarcastic smile and redid the coiffure to be less uncomfortable. Luke's jaw had dropped where he stood helpless between his friend and the French girl.

"Allan!" He exclaimed. "We can't even afford bread!"

"We can now, mate. I said it was my lucky coin didn't I?" Allan smirked and forced his eyes away from Griet's blushing cheeks. "Look, I fixed the money problem. France is a great market for tavern trickeries, and it's hardly even illegal. Well, less illegal than theft anyway, which is what we do back home, right? It will be fine, don't worry."

"You promised you wouldn't do anything illegal at all! We're going to have to run out of this city as well now!"

"Oi, what did you expect me to do? Sell my body? Look, I'm not being funny but with my looks we wouldn't get very far would we? I have fixed it Luke! And with you finding this rather dashing lass," he grinned at Griet, "who I am sure can point us in the direction of the bleedin' Holy Land - we're all set! I'm sick of France! I'm sick of walking! I have had blisters all over my feet for months; I just want to get this done and get home. Whatever pays the bill, mate. Beggars can't be choosers."

"We got arrested for begging as well," Luke murmured bitterly.

A swift expression of compassion softened the trickster's features before it was washed away by the usual cheeky grin. He did an almost invisible gesture, so subtle a less perceptive woman would have missed it completely, giving his young friend a comforting pat on his shoulder. Griet's heart made a little leap in her chest. She had thought these two men to be a bully and his devoted follower, but within a moment it occurred to her that the dynamics between them was of a quite different nature. He was _protecting_ him. Griet bit down on her lip to hide the smile that threatened to betray her, telling the truth of her bouncing heart while her eyebrows did their best to look sardonically detached.

Griet de Sael had always considered herself to be a fee sprit, but right there and then she put herself in shackles. She did not know it then because the only way for love to ever catch her was to sneak up from behind. Her eyes were drawn towards the trickster whose eyes were brashly eyeing her, not bothering to be coy or discreet in his admiration. She had always preferred men to be straightforward rather than rotating around her in ever decreasing circles. She must be blushing because her skin felt feverish, but she let it be since she knew that it suited her. Then she heard Luke mentioning some men pointing at them and her attention was inevitably drawn towards the tavern, where the sheriff of this town was shouting at some guards. Minutes later the two Englishmen found themselves in a panicking flight from the law and Griet didn't even think twice before she decided to follow. Perhaps it was simply because her own business was dodgy enough to keep her constantly avoiding the upholders of the law. It might not have anything at all to do with budding love. Yet whatever the case she would curse and praise that moment for the rest of her life. With Allan-a-Dale you only got the best bits if you put up with the worst.

Yet then again, perhaps that is simply the way the world works.

It was _almost_ legal. To be honest, Allan knew full well that _almost_ legal was pretty much the same as illegal with a twist, and if you were dumb enough to get caught it would result in much the same punishments. The difference lay in your own feelings against the looming punishment in question. When the crime was only _almost_ illegal you had earned the right to feel indignation towards your capturers. It was a subtle difference. One might even say it wasn't really a difference at all. Thus Allan divided his attention between the alluring young lady who now held his lucky coin in her warm hand and the potentially threatening surroundings. He had gotten away with his almost legal tavern trickery, but he knew from experience that the more successful you were in his line of work, the bigger were the risks of getting busted. People didn't like to get conned. They would be angry. His eyes went from Griet's barely concealed smile to the door of the tavern, following the sudden increase in the activity of that particular area.

"Luke," he said and gave the young man a light shuffle. "Luke, we weren't going to spend the night 'ere were we? I think we might consider not, mind you."

"What? Why?"

"Wha'? Nah, it's nothing really. No reason to panic mind you." Allan smiled as he glanced at the commotion over at the tavern and felt his heartbeat rise slightly. He recognised that man, the one with the face that was flaming red with fury, as one of his victims. He was talking to some guards. No, not talking; it looked far more like he was ordering them. "No reason at all really," he murmured and realised that Luke had turned to follow his flickering gaze.

"Those men are pointing at us," the young man said. "Allan, they are pointing at us, why are they pointing at us?"

"Is that man a friend of yours Allan?" Griet asked with a frown. "Perhaps the kind of friend you prefer not to meet again?" Her French accent intensified as her concentration slipped and her r:s started to slide to the back of her tongue. Allan flashed her a look and nodded. "_Merdre_," she hissed and swung herself around, letting her eyes dart from house to house.

"Griet?" Luke questioned, his face puzzled and worried. "Griet? What is wrong?"

"What is it you call an upholder of the law in your country?" Griet responded hurriedly. "A sheriff? Oui, that is the sheriff of this town. _Imbécile!_ You conned the sheriff!"

"You conned the sheriff!" Luke yelled. "Allan!"

"Nah, I wouldn't call it conning 'im exactly…"

"But would _he_ call it that?"

Allan grinned and shrugged. "It's a matter of angle I guess."

"The law does not have angles!" Griet snapped. "If that man is angry then his anger is the law! Come, this way!"

The streets were damp and kissed the soles of Allan's shoes as he dashed after Griet, his left hand grabbing her waist while they led the way in turns. She had pulled up her wide skirt and held the cloth bundled up in her arms as she ran; her socks muddy half way up her calf. Luke was doing his best to keep up but still fell behind. He was a good runner but lost the pace with every cursing Frenchman that they bumped into, slowing down to ask for forgiveness with a smile and a look. He was too kind to be a thug, so hung up on respect towards his fellow men that he neglected his own well-being. They were halfway through the town when Griet pulled them into an alley and pressed her back to the wall, leaning her hands on her knees to catch her breath. After a couple of deep gasps she tucked up the skirt under the belt, leaving her arms free while the ankles remained slightly less obstructed by the hem, and reached up to secure the hairpin. Allan recorded her actions with a sideway glance; noticing that she looked flustered and dishevelled and somehow even more appealing when she didn't try so hard. When she was done they huddled together in the shade and gazed out at the street that still bathed in the pale January sun.

"Blimey there are guards everywhere!" Allan exclaimed at the sight that was displayed before them. The metal caught the beams like little flashes of silver as the guards went in pairs with their weapons drawn, chain-mail rustling under the tunics. They had the looks of men that knew their job, asked around rather than ran randomly in hope of stumbling over the perpetrators. A pallid girl gestured wildly while she spoke to the guards, waving in the general direction of the alley where Allan stood pressed against the wall.

"Yes," Griet responded flatly. "They are very efficient."

Allan and Griet let their eyes scan the surroundings, breathing heavily as they looked for a way out. Luke had backed further into the alley and paced restlessly back and forth. "What do we do?" he asked in rising panic, trying so hard to restrain it that he sounded winded. "What do we do now? We can't—we can't get out of here, can we? Allan we can't get out of here!"

"Shut up! Of course we can, there is always a way."

"We should just take the punishment. I mean, Griet wasn't even involved and you would probably just get a spell in the stocks. That is better than to get us all killed!"

"The church," Allan murmured and ignored Luke, the way he always automatically ignored plans that had no back door. "Listen, do you know the best way to the church, Griet? We need to get there."

"The church!?" Luke exclaimed. "Allan, we don't have time to pray!"

"There is always time for prayers, mate," Allan grinned and looked questioning at the French girl. She nodded and made sure the belt held the skirt firmly in place before she started to trot softly down the ally. "I do," she said and glanced back at the two Englishmen. "But we will have to run across the town square. When we come to the end of this road we make a run for it. Don't turn, don't slow down. And you better have a plan when you get there Allan-a-Dale. You better have a damn good plan."

Allan remained silent, his eyes admiring Griet's curves while the end of the alley closed in on them. It was a streak of light that became a square that buzzed with activity; merchants still shouting our wares in spite of the rather late hour; guards rustling as they patrolled the area with hands resting on the pommels; groups of peasants sharing a drink in the approaching evening. The church lay like a crown jewel at the other end of the square, white and smooth with a chubby, short tower and the narrow windows of a roman-style building. They stopped for half a heartbeat before the sun enveloped them and a dozen faces turned to stop and stare.

Then they ran.

They started slow; then a yell cut through the air as one of the guards turned towards them, and Allan routinely upped his pace. The world turned into a chaotic torrent of noises and colours; faces of strangers appeared out of the blue, were recorded and fast forgotten in the flight. Their feet plummeted down with every desperate leap that brought them closer to the goal; the church that stood like a safe haven, or a shore for the shipwrecked. Little flashes of silver told Allan that the guards were leaking into the crowd from every corner, surrounding the trickster and his companions. Luke bumped into a girl selling ribbons and little shreds of cloth rained down like colourful petals around them. Half a step behind him a stray pig came in Griet's way, always a hassle in towns like these since they provided a cheep food source, and she lost balance for a moment when she dodged out of the way. Allan gripped a handful cloth from her neck and pulled her up like a dog carries her pups, shuffling her forward. The rustling of metal and a shrill oink followed in their footsteps, and Griet laughed out loud as she turned and saw that one of the guards had stumbled over the startled animal. Some people moved away, other's tried to stop them. There were hands on Allan's back, fingers gripping his arm, elbows shoved into his chest. The last part of the way they were throwing themselves ahead, falling and rising and at times crawling on all four in the mud. People were shouting as during a game, and Allan smiled a bit when it occurred to him that he could have made a fortune, if he had the time to put up a bet or ten. No one would have believed them to pull this off. Then the cool shadow from the church fell over them and they more or less stumbled through the door.

"S—sanctuary!" Allan wheezed, leaned his hands on his knees and curved his back at the arched roof of the church.

"What?" Luke asked between the sharp breaths.

"Sanctuary," Allan repeated with an exhausted grin. He turned to the French guards who had stopped in hesitation, the blades half-lowered at the ground as if they weren't quite sure how to tackle the situation. They had not expected the chase to end like this and didn't feel comfortable entering a church with drawn swords. That was good; Allan had counted on that. "_Sanctuaré,_" he grinned at them, pronouncing the English word in a parody of a French accent. "_Capish?_"

"Capish?" Griet exclaimed with an astonished smile on her full lips.

"Yeah well doesn't that mean 'understand' or something?"

"It most certainly does not!"

"Oh—Right. Yeah well I guess it was in Italy or something. Whatever. Look, sweetheart, will you translate? Tell these _gentlemen_," he cleared his throat and raised his voice as if he was making a declaration. "That this is a sanctuary. We have a right to remain here unscathed." The silence fell between them and Allan looked at Griet. "For 30 days," he finished. "You have that rule don't you?"

"I wouldn't know," she answered. "When I run form the law I make sure I got a head start first."

"Clever girl," Allan grinned and met Luke's sceptically creased forehead with a wink.

The guards responded rather edgily to Griet's wheedling French accent and her face was distorted into a scowl. When she turned back to her company she seemed rather flustered – caused by indignation rather than exhaustion - and red spots budded on her round cheeks.

"You alright Griet?" Luke asked cautiously as the French girl forcefully stroked the fringe away from her eyes.

"They insulted me," she snorted with a crooked smile. "I am fine. It is fine. They are running to get the sheriff but I doubt they will risk spilling your blood on holy ground." She started to move further into the richly decorated Church and added in a disinterested voice: "By the way, I said you are holding me hostage. It is better than them thinking I chose this company. Well, better for me anyway. I have to think about my future in all this."

"What! No!" Luke exclaimed while Allan's face was split by a grin.

"Lying in church—swearing," he smiled. "Not bad. I think I can get used to France."

"We only got 30 days," Luke reminded him with a frustrated scowl. "Not much time to get used to anything."

"Nah but we got a hostage now. We can probably make it—40, 45 days even."

"But that is a worse crime isn't it? I don't think they're okay with us stealing French girls, Allan. And then what?"

"How should I know, something will come up. Look Lukey, when I'm doomed to certain death I normally only have one or two days to fix it. Blimey, you're starting to sound like Much. We are going to die! He is going to die! Everyone is going to die! What good will that kind of thinking do us?"

"Who is Much?" Griet questioned curiously.

"Just this whiney bloke I used to know. Doomsayer if ever there was one."

"Perhaps he was right to be a doomsayer," Luke mumbled. "All I wanted was to get my brother home, and now I'm a fugitive from the law. You shouldn't have tricked those people Allan! This is not your turf, you don't know these people!"

"Of course I don't know them!" Allan sneered in response. He was tired and felt trapped; never a good time to pester an a-Dale who could be short-tempered at the best of times. "Have you ever tried tricking someone you know? Wouldn't work, too many trust issues. Anyway this is hardly my fault, is it? The way they're all overreacting they probably think we're Jews or something."

"Or Englishmen," Griet interposed with a sarcastic smirk. "That is not much better. Trust me."

It took Allan a total of five seconds to let his eyes dart around the room and decide that the only thing there that sparked his interest was Griet's swaying hips. The windows were narrow and let in little pools of light that striped the floor of the simple country church. There was a finely cut wooden statue of the Mother Mary who wore a gold brimmed cloak that draped down in permanent folds, and the once white walls were drowning in colourful murals. The naked innocence of paradise was followed by a scene of the domestic life of farmers, Biblical illustrations and everyday scenes in no apparent order. When the other two slumped down on a bench by the wall Luke remained standing with a rather forlorn expression in his eyes, staring at the walls with his arms hanging down in dejection. His gaze followed the silhouette of boar that rather unexpectedly had been painted into a picture of paradise; then moved over to Eve who sat is a yellow dress and worked a distaff while Adam ploughed the field. He was still staring wordlessly at the murals when the guards returned with the sheriff, and Griet repeated the words about the church being a sanctuary. Finally she turned to Allan.

"This is good I think," she said. "They have agreed that it is a sanctuary, and I have negotiated for them to give us some peace through the night."

"Negotiated?" Luke burst out. "We don't really have a bargaining position do we?"

"Ah, but that is the thing," Griet grinned. "It seems we do have a rather favourable position, well, as far as fugitives go anyway. They really don't want us here."

"Of course they don't!" Allan sighed and rubbed his brows wearily. "We're a couple of thugs occupying their bloody church. Mind you, I'm not doing any free redecorating either if that is what they're fishing after."

"No," Griet laughed. "I don't think they would consider your motives appropriate for a church anyway. The thing is - they are expecting a rather fancy visitor, and they _really_ don't want any junk here to spoil her stay."

"What visitor?" Allan asked with a frown.

"Well, if I understand it correctly it is none other that your queen mother; the alluring Eleanor of Aquitaine. Not that I care much for high politics but right now it seems to do our bidding. She is collecting funds to get her son out of captivity."

"John bleedin' Landless is behind bars!?" Allan exclaimed.

"No, not John. The one you call Richard Coeur de Lion. He is in jail in Germany they say," Griet smiled and creased her forehead sarcastically. "He is a bit chatty, this sheriff, likes to 'spread information'. Funny isn't it? One man's hell is another man's bliss. Our bliss, as it happens. They will be quite willing to negotiate our release now."

A smile split Allan's face from side to side and he leaned his hands against his hips. That _was_ funny! In fact, it was much funnier than she knew - the fair Griet. "No," he grinned smugly, "No, we're not 'aving any of that. We're going to wait for this fancy lass, the queen mum, and when she comes—well. Let's just say we got common friends, Queen Eleanor and myself. Very dear friends at that, mind you." He slumped down by the wall and gestured for Griet and Luke to follow his example, pulling out a flask of ale that he had hanging from his belt. "Look, we 'ave a night here at least. There's nothing like a flask of lukewarm ale and a good story to pass the time is there? And don't go rolling your eyes Lukey - not being funny but one of these days they will get stuck in the wrong direction. I think it's time we tell Griet all about this lad called Robin Hood." He took a gulp of ale and tossed the flask to Luke. "Takes from the rich and gives to the poor he does, but he couldn't win a game of dice if he's life depended on it…"

* * *

**NEXT: The enemy is amongst them, but will Robin find out in time? And is it really the enemy or only a stray soul looking for the right direction?**


	18. Chapter 17: Friend or Foe?

**Hey,**

**Sorry about the long wait, I have been sick. **

**Mizco: Well someone will in fact find out about Marian rather soon... ;) I just have to many threads to keep track of in this story.  
Emmilette: Glad to hear you're hooked :D  
Chanel: Marian i still with Richard. They're in trouble together atm.  
KeepingAmused: lol, yeah I rather like Griet. She is more of less crafter to suit Allan, so how can she go wrong? :D There will be DjaqWill soon, promise. I haven't forgotten them.  
LoonyLover: aw ty. Luke is a bit of a blank page b/c he has such a small role in the show. I have tried to craft him without making him ooc anyway. I imagine him as being a shyer version of Will, more passive and not as intensely idealistic as Will is. Allan is, as always one of my absolute favorite characters to write.  
Daze: ty, I like writing suspense :D I try to put the reader in the situation w the characters b/c fighting scenes and such get rather easily boring.  
Elsii: well I love the real Queen Elinore, great historical character :)  
Ana Sedai: No, you are right. The season finale was wrong, wrong, wrong. This fic has really helped me actually, and it makes me happy that it can give some solace to my readers as well. :D **

**Comments are as always love. :)**

**xxx  
Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 17: Friend or Foe?**

_-In which Guy is obsessed and Melinda makes a decision_

There was a chilly wind that kissed the skeletal branches of Sherwood Forest, and Little John knew with all the instinct of an experienced man of the woods that it was the first gust of winter. Once it took hold it would be cold and harsh, the trees naked and providing a poor shelter for those who needed hiding. The camp was indeed a blessing under these dire circumstances, although the hinges of the hatch was falling apart without the Scarletts' tender care. John gave the structure a forceful shuffle, making some of the more rickety parts shake uncontrollably.

"What are you doing?! John—John!" Much rushed up and steadied one of the kitchen shelves with his own body. "What—the pots will fall! This is—this is our food! Our winter storage!"

Little John rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath. "Well, these won't last," he grunted out loud. "You should just put the pots on the floor."

"On the floor! It will look a mess!"

"It will not fall," John shrugged and gave a supporting beam one last thud that made some gravel rain down from the ceiling.

"The camp is well built but poorly maintained," Robin interrupted the argument from where he sat in his bed and straightened out arrows. "That is the problem. It will last though the winter but in this spring we need someone to take a good look at it."

"Well, perhaps Mel knows someone we can trust," Much nodded, and instantly Melinda felt the full weight of the outlaws' attention fall upon her. She nodded and smiled with tense lips in response to Much's question.

Weeks had passed, or so she thought. It seemed so wrong for the forest to change around them, leave the autumn behind for the very first winter without her Tommy in the world. Sherwood meant 'bright wood' in the olden tongue, but Melinda did not see any light between the trees and their shadows. Her world remained a dark vortex where change was distant, impossible even. How did the leaves dare to fall when Tommy wasn't there to see them? Sorrow is a feeling that implodes in silence. It is a black hole that swallows, an undying thirst that remains unsatisfied and greedy for more. Anger, on the other hand, is an explosion. It builds up energy, however destructive, instead of devouring it, and in that force Melinda could find life and the will to pursue it. She had wished to know her enemy. In her simple ethics that made her better than the guards or warriors who killed faceless men, cut them down like they were nothing but flesh. Ironically Robin Hood seemed even more like a shadow now that she was near him, and time only made the extremes in her life more extreme. The anger and hate was fiercer, the sorrow deeper, and yet the dullness that provides the stuffing in life was so serene that the forest's song felt like a lullaby.

Melinda could not afford too much curiosity, but it still itched - taunted her even. The curiosity about their mysterious leader was what screamed loudest, but was also the one that remained unsatisfied. When he talked his voice was a bit mellow, bored even. Sometimes he seemed confident on the verge of being smug; a steady leader who interrupted arguments with such a natural authority as one would expect in one that considered himself a royalty. Robin Hood was a king, a forest God who saw no reasons to obey any laws or bend down to any will.Yet he had so little interest in the world, remained vague and impossible to get close to. His personality dispersed like smoke when you tried to reach out for it, and his friends actively helped to uphold the wall. Much and John were so unbelievably cautious when it came to their leader. Were they afraid of the man that could step out of the shadows if you challenged him? Perhaps it was not a wall to keep their leader safe but a cage to keep the world safe that they spent so much effort supporting.

"Still think you should put the jars on the floor for now," Little John finished off the argument, gaining an annoyed look from Much who was making sure nothing stood too close to the edge. They didn't shout at each other, Melinda mused, and in some way every discussion seemed respectful. Their friendship ran deep beneath the crude surface, seemed ancient and rooted like the forest itself. They were brothers in misfortune and they bickered just like brothers, sometimes unnecessarily harsh because they knew they could risk it. In this world they had so very little that the things they had were glued to their back. They carried their home and friends with a mixture of pride and complaint - would die for each other in a moment but sometimes found it hard to live together.

Melinda looked around the camp and realised how torn she felt. The hate was still red and hot under her skin, but it was so hard to match it with this unsuspected safe haven. During the nights her more cynical sides called upon her attention, when sleep eluded her and the forest was far too loud around her. _They look upon me as cattle_, she whispered into the wool blankets, _a child; a possession_. _I am naught but a good deed._ Yet during the long days she found that their kindness and care was not so easily rejected. She quenched a sigh and leaned back towards the wall. Hate had always seemed like such a more straightforward emotion than love but now she found them to not only be opposite but also each other's equals. Her soul screamed out for vengeance, and in her heart she knew that nothing else could give her rest in this world. Peace of mind was like death in this camp. It was to give in to the cruel fate that had taken her Tommy away from her; she could not do that. The world was of tune, had missed a beat and staggered to remain balance. Vengeance was the only thing that still made sense, as if focusing her life on the pursuit after revenge somehow kept Tommy alive and the excruciating emptiness restrained.

"Alice always liked the winter," John suddenly grunted. "Said not to care about the darkness when it was so light in the snow." He smiled and nodded nostalgically. "Wise woman. Always saw the opportunities."

"Well, she would have to be an optimistic woman, wouldn't she? Marrying you?" Much teased the big man and got an old rag tossed in his general direction in response.

"Or simply a woman with a stubborn suitor," Robin pointed out. "I think that does make_ him_ the optimist."

"Ay, well," Melinda smiled, "the lasses at the laundry say one always loves more. They are full of rubbish most of the time but even a blind archer hits the target every now and then."

Robin lifted his head with a crooked smile, his interest sparked but seemingly far away.

"I used to fear such matters when I was a boy," he said and grabbed a horizontal beam with his palms, swinging his nimble body out into the room. There was something rather restless about his playful manners, as if he didn't quite know how his body fitted into the world.

"Master?" Much asked with a frown.

"When I was younger," Robin explained. "I was always afraid that I loved more than—well, much more than I should. As if it was a matter of fair trade and I had holes in my pouch—and no thread to close them to make the matter worse." The smile still lingered on his lips - although absentminded and decidedly sorrowful - as he let go off the beam and reached for his quiver on the bed to continue straightening arrows. "I was young. It was a long time ago."

"Can't be that long ago," Melinda smiled - curious about this rare opportunity to see into the soul of her nemesis. She wouldn't let him shut the door now, in spite of the warning glances from Much. "You're just a lad. Who was she?"

"Supper," Much exclaimed and started to pace away to the cooking area. "I think it is time for supper. What shall it be? Rabbit? Well, we don't have any rabbit—we could go get some. Or we could just eat bread and—cheese. I'm sure there is cheese somewhere. Where did I put that pot…"

There came a rather dry laughter from Robin at this obvious attempt to change the subject, and Melinda pressed her lips together with a frown. "What happened?" she insisted and watched the shadows wander over Robin's face, half-concealed by a tense smile.

"I went to war," he responded. "I grew up. I realised it doesn't matter. Love is rare - one cannot be vain about it. It is a gift - it means nothing if it isn't gladly given in abundance. Saving it merely drains it dry-- as if a heart forgets what it once did without effort. Loved. And was loved in return."

"So many fancy words and still a bachelor," Melinda sighed ironically. Knights and their romantic love was not for this world, yet it amused her that Robin would talk like some hero from the ballads. What was a façade and what was real in his life? "She must 'ave been quite the lady to hold back when you pushed."

The silence fell over the camp like a wet blanket, worried looks passed over Melinda's head but she ignored them.

"Much," Robin responded, keeping his eyes firmly locked into Melinda's as he spoke. "Did you find that cheese?" He was telling her that the subject was closed; not threatening her out loud, but definitely making sure that she knew these berries were red and might be dangerous to devour. What did it take to know him? When he drank he drank with moderation, the words he spoke in his sleep made little sense and while awake he treated his mind like a fortress. Perhaps she read too much into this. He did not seem to be a man who got emotionally involved, and perhaps heroism was always detached.

A light rain started to drum against the ceiling and big drops sipped though the wood, drawing a shallow laughter from Robin's lunges.

"We might consider getting more buckets if we are to spend a British winter in this lair, or we will have puddles for rugs in our great hall," he smiled and curled up in his bed again. He had an arrow in his hand and the quiver resting between his knees, but instead or working he simply grazed the striped feathers. His pretty face was half-concealed by the shadows and frozen in a smile that seemed carved into wood rather than a natural formation. Still he remained a mystery, providing questions but not a single answer. Did she even want the answers he might provide to her? A hint of sadness, a flash of compassion, a whiff of lost love. These were not traits you wished to see in your nemesis. In fact, she would have preferred him to be a monster. Bit by bit it occurred to her that the soldiers that killed faceless enemies might not be cowards as much as men clinging to their sanity. She had told herself that she wished to know the 'who' and 'why' of her husband's death, but if fact she would have preferred to simply have her view of the murderer corroborated. She did not _want_ him to be human. She wished the populous to be wrong about their hero because that would make it easier to justify her revenge. Melinda looked over at the man on the bed once again and felt a shudder run down her spine like cold water. He sat like a statue, his thoughts inaccessible while his hands ran up and down the feathers and his features remained stiff. The smile in his face was so cold and joyless, like the painted grin of a jester or muscles that had locked into position and got stuck. She tried to find life in his eyes but they were nothing but black pits that didn't even see her, even though they were aimed right at her. Who knew what he was thinking? His men? The people that worshipped him? Did he even know himself, or was it simply lack of thought that made him seem so eerie now? A mystery he remained, because the way he appeared in these shadows could mean anything. He could be hollow on the inside or burn with so much emotion that his simply couldn't handle the weight. How was she ever to know? Another shudder made Melinda's body tremble and Little John cautiously placed a blanket over her shoulders, thinking the young woman might be cold in this harsh environment.

"There, there," the elder man grunted. "Don't you go catch something little friend."

Melinda nodded with a grateful smile and wished the cold under her skin could be so easily exorcised.

--

Sir Guy watched the table before him with a mixture of despair and triumph, both emotions dulled by the fact that he had not slept well the weeks since Melinda Baker's visit. Always one who preferred brute force over dubious schemes Gisbourne was no fool, but rather considered his intelligence to be of a practical nature. He used it as a fist or not at all, and the last couple of weeks he had felt his knuckles whiten. Letting the wench borrow a couple of guards had quite unexpectedly stirred an idea in Guy's mind, and it had slowly transformed his study into a war zone. The resulting image created before him was not the usual chaotic papers with plump ink-stains, and half done calculations. Instead it was a map.

A prepared cow-skin was stretched across the workspace where a picture of the massive Sherwood Forest had been painted. It was not a particularly precise map. Some areas, known as the deep wilderness, were more or less chunks of nothing that were notoriously underestimated in size. People didn't venture into these areas. They were for trolls and thugs, for spirits and ungodly things, maidens that lured you into bottomless ponds and fairies who sung you to death. Superstition flourished in places like Sherwood because there were no people foolish enough to challenge the myths and legends. In a way Robin Hood was just another one of these myths. People already talked about an unnaturally big oak in the midst of the forest, where the outlaws lived like flowers between the roots, their clothes as emerald as the greenwood itself and their bows supernaturally precise.

This was the reason for Guy's despair, the fact that his map was so unreliable. The reason for his triumph, on the other hand, was the many pins which freckled the map like some infectious skin-decease. These were the sightings of Robin Hood, and they came in clusters around certain areas. Melinda Baker had wished to know the place where Robin Hood was most frequently found in order to target her sneaky attack. It was just like women to manipulate and scheme rather than use straightforward methods for revenge, but Guy was desperate enough to help any enemy of Hood. To be honest Guy had already had a vague idea where the outlaws used to roam back then. It was quite far north no doubt, since the northern road was like a scar where no sane man passed without a big retinue these days. However, the almost painful work with the map had made the view so much clearer. It told him that Hood was a man with habits.

The big doors to the study creaked open and the beam of light that cut through the room made the dusty air sparkle and dance. There was some rustling and a flash of silver as metal caught the sun, and a guard stepped in, looking around with suspicious glances. The study was dusky and stale and smelled much like the man who had made it into his lair the last couple of weeks. Guy stood by his desk, looking up to give the guard a rather hostile glare with eyes that were red and watery from insomnia. The hair was ruffled and greasy and his face untidy under several days worth of coarse stubble.

The guard took an involuntary step back and stroked nervously over the scabbard he had hanging from his belt. It wasn't actually a sword in there, just a rather long dagger which left half the scabbard hollow. Yet it was reasonably sharp and thus a comfort.

"What are you doing here?" Guy sneered at the intrusion.

"Just, we got 'em ready now sir… 'em guards with weapons 'n all. You coming today sir, or we're going alone, like?"

"I do not have time for forest strolls," Guy hissed and turned back to the map. This was part two of his plan. Now that he had the sightings mapped out he had sent small patrols into the active areas, letting them pace around with drawn swords looking suitably menacing. He didn't exactly expect to stumble over Hood's camp, but he would have more sightings. He would have times and places. In time he would have patterns. The sheriff would be pleased and his cunning would slowly win over the respect of the populous, even if it was a respect forged in fear.

The door slammed shut as the guard backed out with a sigh of relief, leaving the room dark and gloomy once again. Guy slumped down in his chair and picked up a jug of lukewarm wine from the floor, gulping it down with a grimace.

Vaysey had been leaving his sergeant more or less alone during these weeks, every now and then taking a walk around the room to study the interesting developments. It wasn't so much the map of Sherwood that interested him, but rather the state of Gisbourne's mind. Rumours said that the dark lord was slowly loosing his sanity, his mind slipping until only the leather remained of the old sergeant. Guy was paranoid enough to make sure he still had eyes and ears in the castle, wise not to trust the sheriff any more than the sheriff trusted him. Thus he knew how the talk went on the great hall in his absence. "Do what he says, however peculiar," was Vaysey's amused orders to the guards. "I want to see where this is going. Wasn't his sweet mother as crazy as a bat, hm? Perhaps it is hereditary. Heh."

Everyone needed to make the best out of the cold months and Vaysy had always been a man who enjoyed a good laugh, preferably at someone else's expense. It didn't surprise Guy that the sheriff mocked his efforts rather than reward them. The old man was a fool, although a clever fool, who was too preoccupied with his own reflection to see the world from someone else's view. Guy didn't feel like arguing his case. Soon enough the sheriff would fall ill and die and Gisbourne would be the heir to the scruffy kingdom, in spite of all his employer's mockeries. Marian may be dead but there were other things in this world, less fickle than love and not as fragile as flesh. There was money, and glory - not the romantic glory of the Holy Land but the kind of glory that walked behind true power like a puppy on his master's leash. That kind of glory could not be contradicted, nor tainted by the wild torrents of history that praised a man one year then his opponent the next. That was why all the heroism of King Richard would fade once the power balance shifted. 'The king who abandoned his people' would be an epithet that echoed far longer than 'Coeur de Lion'.

Guy gave the room a crooked smile and bit down on a winter apple with a cringing grimace as the sour juice made his teeth ache. It was a sign of age that made him feel a wave of nausea. In truth, it was time for the sheriff to step down soon or Guy would be an old man before his power peaked. Soon he would have to marry or his family name would die with him. What use was there in restoring a name that wouldn't last? The thoughts were unpleasant because they came with a feeling of loss that made his body feel hollow, a rotting shell in this stale, dusky room. Insane he wasn't, but how long could a man be this trapped and still keep his wits?

The sheriff sometimes appeared to be immortal and so did Robin Hood, this ghost that never seemed to leave Gisbourne. From time to time Guy feared that Hood would haunt him past death just like Marian did. She filled the castle and Hood held every leaf in Sherwood Forest and Locksley. In spite of having lost all rights to the lands they somehow seemed to remain his - his name resting always in the stories by the hearths and under every nostalgic sigh in the fields. So far away and still always, everywhere! Even this room, Guy's own study, had been slowly taken over by Hood. His smug smile had put a flaming banner in Guy's soul, claiming it for all eternity with hate just like Marian had claimed it with love once. Together they took up every thought in Gisbourne's weary mind, a pair there just as they had been a pair in life. The resentment was so strong that Guy for a moment wondered over this project of his, a twang of doubt amidst the obsession. Was this map progress or merely a proof that Hood was winning ground in the barren battleground that was Gisbourne's soul?

Damn this mind, Gisbourne swore under his breath, always haunted and chased like prey. What glory could there be in a life this plagued?! Yet he shuffled the thoughts away from him, focusing on the pins on the map instead. There might be one more pin here once the guards came back, one more sighting, one step closer to at least breaking down Hood's physical body. Then perhaps, in time, his apparition would follow and finally leave Gisbourne some blasted peace of mind!

It was past noon when Melinda saw the guards. She had a basket resting on her hip, her hair hung in chaotic frizzy curls around her head in a colour as dull as the weather and her underskirt was muddy up to her knees. It had been raining and the forest had a musky smell of damp leaves and earth that she found pleasant and inhaled in deep breaths, letting out the air little sighs. There were still mushrooms between the gray roots that radiated out from the trunks and Mel had black soil under her fingernails from picking the little caps. If she wished to kill the outlaws, mushrooms were one way to go about things; there were enough nasty mushrooms that looked safe for a sloppy observer, but she had quickly discarded it as cruel and cowardly. Instead the mushroom she picked were for Much, who craved them for his cooking with a childish enthusiasm that she found endearing. She had just reached for a couple of intensely yellow chanterelles when she heard the first sign that she wasn't alone.

"Damn and blast I snared mine foot in these bloody roots… We're too far in lads! None 'ere but fairies and ungodly things, I told ye!"

The sudden yell made Mel freeze, the mushrooms still resting between her soiled fingers and her jaw dropped in surprise. There were more voices, grumbling and cursing, and the sound of metal softly hitting metal. People?! This close to the camp? Cautiously she pressed herself against a tree and mentally cursed her heart for being so loud. The vegetation here was bushy and treacherous and the four men that came into sight had obvious problems. They were dressed heavily in chain-mail and carried pikes and swords that they waved rather randomly against the snakelike branches. These were Nottingham city guards! Whatever did they do out here in the deep wilderness?!

"Better continue this way," one of the other guards said as he cast a wistful look behind them. "I won't go trough that damned mire again, like!"

"Perhaps we can edge round it? Look, there's a just shrubbery miles and miles ahead, innit?"

"Better shrubs than mires, at least the ground doesn't swallow men whole 'ere."

"That little mire wouldn't swallow a bleedin' hare!" the guard that first had caught Mel's attention sneered.

"Nah, but ye never know with them mires mind you."

The conversation continued back and forth for a while as Melinda tried to place the guards, wondering if she knew any of them. It was difficult to tell from such a distance, and in truth most guards were the same as the next one. Finally they seemed to decide to continue through the shrubbery and Melinda felt her heart leap with fear. What did she do now? If they continued in this direction they were in very big risk of stumbling over the camp! The outlaws didn't expect visitors from that direction; the nature was too harsh for anyone to venture into it if they didn't know where they were going. After a moment's thought she gathered her skirts and started to dash towards the camp, cursing a bit as the mushrooms jumped out of the basket and all her hard work got lost amongst the leaves. Yet her heart told her to run, to warn the outlaws of the approaching danger. She didn't hold any grudge towards John or Much and the thought of them being killed in such a trap when she could have prevented it made her feel sick. As the camp came into view she pressed her lips together not to shout out. With guards this close that would be unwise, to say the least. There was smoke coming from Much's cooking fire and the man was whistling happily while some water boiled up in a kettle. When he saw Mel he waved cheerfully and greeted her with a rather greedy smile.

"Ah here comes the mushrooms!" he exclaimed and rubbed his hands together, reaching out for Melinda's basket.

"No, Much, put out the fire!" she gasped and tossed the basket down to the platform that was the main cooking area, making the mushrooms spread out all over the floor.

"What! Why?" Much stared at her and then at the yellow shapes that had been her proud harvest. "Oh, Mel, why did you do that?! Chanterelles! I can fry those in butter and serve on warm bread-- with some garlic-- and…"

"No, Much listen," Mel yelped as she looked edgily for a bucket of water. "There are guards down in the spider-branch vale, we 'ave to put out the fire, now, like!"

"Guards!?" Robin came out from the sleeping area with John close behind, his bow clutched so hard in his hand that his knuckles had gone white. His wide eyes showed that he was fast to grasp the seriousness of the situation, too used to being hunted to dare take any chances. "What do you mean guards in Spider-branch vale, they never come that way?!"

"Aye but today they do," Melinda nodded before she carefully lifted the kettle with boiling water and poured some over the fire, quenching the cloud of smoke with her apron without bothering about the soot. She was a practical woman, and once she had decided to warn the outlaws this was her disaster as well.

"Right," Robin responded and gawked at nothing particular, for a moment looking so much like a cornered animal that Melinda felt a wave of empathy. His entire world was suddenly threatened. "Right," he said again, "Much, John, take arms. Better we find them before they find us or we will not live to see another winter."

"Wha!?" Melinda exclaimed and felt a chill building in her stomach. "What do you mean?"

Robin stopped for a moment to put a hand on her shoulder, a light squeeze that felt distant even though it was meant to be comforting. His eyes were firmly locked into hers when he spoke.

"Listen, Melinda," he said. "I know you are no warrior, nor a soldier of mine. You do not have to be a part of this. But you are a woman of the world and this should not be so alien for you. This has to be done. Will you stay in the camp?"

Melinda had felt the chill in her stomach grow and spread until every limb in her body seemed to be affected. They would kill the guards! How could she be such a fool not to see that coming? They would kill them, men just like her husband, and she had driven them right into the outlaws razor shaped arms! The coldness was so fierce that it made her shudder, her jaw locked so that speaking would have been painful in she had found anything to say. Robin must have interpreted her trembling as acceptance because he nodded melancholically and gestured for his men to follow him. They hardly made a noise when they ventured out towards the shrubberies that were known to the outlaws as spider-branch vale, and Melinda felt her strength drain from her limbs as though the ice had melted. She slumped down by the wall and waited for the tears, but instead her stomach just jerked and churned as if she was nauseated. Did she hear the screams from the guards or was it just the wind playing tricks? Did she smell the blood or the camp always feel this metallic, like a slaughterhouse? Did she sense the twang from Robin's bow and the thud of John's staff? Sometime during the wait the nameless guards became her Tommy, his eyes forlorn as he was killed over and over again just because he got lost in the wrong vale. Every thought hurt like a dagger yet Melinda couldn't cry.

After a while the men came back, and Mel forced herself to look at them with neutral eyes. It was oddly enough not as hard as she had expected. As soon as Robin came sauntering into the camp with his bow loosely in his hand the chill built up again and made her feel as if she had been carved from a rock rather than flesh and blood. He looked aloof even though the arrows in his hand were dipped in blood and he tossed them rather thoughtlessly to the ground. He would wash the heads and straighten the shafts, she realised, making the arrows ready to use again. Then he would use them and use them, never giving a thought to the men that he cut down, and people would keep hailing him like a hero. She turned her attention to Much and John instead, too overcome by disgust and fear to bare looking at their leader. Their faces were different, shocked and distraught like the situation at least touched them.

Much fell down beside Melinda and John leaned on his staff while Robin started to take care of his arrows and that precious bow of his. Melinda thought the weapon looked like it was laughing at her and wondered if it was true that it was enchanted.

"Good shooting," Much finally said. "Very good—aim, Robin. Is it getting better?"

Robin gave him a rather cold look, a bit warning as if Much was edging over some invisible line. Then he gave the manservant something between a nod and a shrug in response.

"Ah," Much continued and took a deep gulp of water. It was silent for a while before he continued. "Well, it was nearly our undoing, that. I mean, I think we should not forget to properly thank Mel for warning us."

His kindness made Melinda's stomach turn but she forced a smile. "It is naught," she responded. "I am your guest after all. Did you," she swallowed hard and tried to keep her strained voice calm, "did you take 'em all out?"

"Yes," Little John grunted. "All of them. Need to get back to bury the bodies before the animals have a feast."

Robin shook his head.

"It is better to take them to Clun," he murmured. "We can't have people going missing in the forest like this. Our dear Gisbourne will wonder."

"And they will get a good Christian burial," Much added with a nod at Melinda, as if he sensed that she was uncomfortable with the situation. "On good Christian ground."

"Shame they will go to hell anyway for their alliances," Robin jeered with a sarcastic grin which shocked not only Melinda by the look of it. Much gasped and Little John's jaw dropped open.

"Master!" Much exclaimed. Robin's nasty smile disappeared and was instantly replaced by bewilderment. He seemed lost for moment, a flash of regret or repulse walking like a shadow over his features. It only lasted a second.

"Sorry," he mumbled and rose from his position. "I truly did not mean that." He stood for a while and lingered in the middle of the cooking area before he made a swift cross sign and glanced up at the sky. "Better get on with the cooking, Much," he finally sighed. "It looks like rain. John and I will take the bodies to Clun. We will be back before nightfall."

As they disappeared Melinda started to pick up the mushrooms from the floor, brushing them off on her dress one by one. Her movements were almost painfully slow and calm considering the roaring storm that raged under her skin. She tried to sort out her thoughts by picking them up thread by thread, going through all these new impressions. Was that all? Four men dead and they were cooking dinner, disposing of the bodies like it was naught but waste products. So little care for the men that his bow snatched from this world! The guards weren't noble so they didn't matter any more for Robin than they did for Gisbourne. What did he think? That men lost their soul once they took on chain-mail? That the guards were too inhuman to have wives and children? Perhaps this was what she had been waiting for ever since Tommy died. This was proof of what this man Robin Hood truly was; an idealistic man once but now callous and dangerous. She could not let him continue. A faint smile graced her lips as the immense relief of finally making a decision washed over her. This was it. Robin Hood had to die.

* * *

**NEXT: Robin Hood dies. Or does he?**


	19. Chapter 18: The bestlaid plans

**Well, here is chapter 18. It might take me some time to get the next chapter up after this. I'm sort of a bit overwhelmed by personal problems atm. **

**Kate: Well Melinda is still an outsider, and Robin is very internal atm, so it makes sense that she doesn't quite understand him. Things are put n the edge in this chapter.  
KeepingAmused: Glad you sympathize with Melinda, I was aiming at that, having people understand her somewhat.  
Mizco: Well, Robin didn't have much of a choice really, he was cornered when he killed those guards. But it is also true that he is a warrior, and killing is not alien to him.  
Ana Sedai: I don't think it is getting only angstier. Marian has made her way to King Richard's company, Robin is somewhat less insane with grief and the Allan substory is rather light, but things need to be put on their very edge. Of course, with that said, things do take a turn for the worse in this chapter lol.  
Stitch: Thank you! I have discussed this quite a lot with people, the killing of Marian, and very few people seems to think it was a good decision. I really lost the last of my confidence in the writers/producers of this show. They set out to make it light entertainment and forget the cardinal rule; a happy bloody ending!  
Jess: Course he cant's die... or can he? :evil:  
Chanel: lol, well Melinda is planning to murder out hero. Resenting her a bit might be alright in spite of all her pitifulness.  
Lana: She does need to know Robin better, but he really isn't giving her a chance.  
LadyElsii: I don't know when I will write the next part of the Marian story, it will be the next chapter or the one after that. **

**thanx for reviewing!  
xxx  
Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 18: The best-laid plans**

_-In which we see a start of a very cold winter__  
_

There was ale in the jug, since no one drank water if you didn't have to in this time and place. It was strong ale at that, bitter and burning on Robin's tongue. The night was deep and almost impossibly black around the gang as they huddled together around the fire, where the flames made the shadows dance like restless spirits, and the moon was merely a toothless smile in the sky. Their eyes looked strangely hollow and their faces seemed eerie in the flickering light, putting parts so deep in shadow that their normal features became amplified into absurdity. They looked so much like skeletons that Robin sometimes thought they were, smooth ivory where the skin should be and fanglike teeth which lay bare without lips to shield them. He took another sip of ale, wondering how it could be so perfectly chilled when the night was so warm, and the alcohol made his tongue feel numb. More smiles. More ale. No one spoke, but merely grinned and drank while the fire grew wilder between them. He took another big gulp of ale, but frowned as he realised that he couldn't swallow it. Instead the beverage spilled out over his chin and chest, making the cloth in his shirt sticky as it clung to his body. The surroundings grew blurred as if the world melted into a thick mist. Fear, so sudden that his body reacted while his mind was merely bewildered, made him wheeze for air.

The dancing fire started to spin, the hollow faces multiplied. He tried to breathe but there was no air, his throat thick, so thick! Panic grew out of the bewilderment and he grabbed his throat with his hands, scratching the delicate skin. Scathing and scratching he tried to find his friends, anything familiar to use as an anchor in the terror, but he had fallen to his back, his body a tense curve where every muscle was like a drawn bowstring ready to snap. He tried to speak but could not, tried to breathe but seemed to have forgotten how it was done. The sky was a huge freckled nothing before his eyes where the stars twinkled and faded one by one.

Finally his muscles relaxed, became limp and impossible to move. The clarity hit him like a fist plunged into his stomach. This was it. He was dead. There was no sound, no light, no feelings but a hollow, aching fear. In a time span that seemed like forever he waited, waited and waited for something more, until it occurred to him that this might be it. No heaven or hell, no reunion with Marian, no punishment or reward in the afterlife. Perhaps death was only an eternity of nothing. Then he realised that he wasn't alone. Slowly faces materialised around him, gray and eerie with smiles that reeked of malice. He recognised them. Every single one of these faces was familiar to him, all too familiar in spite of being deprived of all humanity. These were the men that he had killed, the sacrifices for his cause, all the way up to the most recent; four guards still wearing chain-mail where the striped feathers of his arrows pointed at him in accusation like macabre adornments.

Then he screamed.

Robin woke up in a violent spasm, his body wet with sweat and the sheets damp and twisted around him so that he couldn't move. His heart pounded so hard that he felt sure it would wake up the entire camp and he moved a trembling hand to his throat, taking a few gasping breaths just to make sure that he still could. His body was tense and trembling but he could move it, his throat was thick but could breathe. The dream had been so vivid that he still felt the taste of bitter, strong ale on his tongue and he swallowed hard before he forced himself to relax. Every shadow in the camp seemed so much like a gray face of death, yet he knew that it was just pots and pans. He wasn't dead. The men he had killed had not come to exact their revenge in a terrifying parade. He voiced the sentence again and again, silently under his breath; I'm not dead, I'm not dead, good Lord I'm not dead. The thoughts didn't calm his beating heart and the sheets were so damp with sweat that they became cold in the chilly camp, making him shudder. For a moment he thought that he had actually spilled ale over himself, wavered between the drowsy dream world and a hazy reality, before he caught a brief glimpse of the moon through a crack in the wall. It was full like a round cheese, so different from the dream that it tugged him away from the last of his confusion and left him with nothing but a lingering sense of terror. With some effort he untwisted the sheets and made himself free, still forcing every breath as if it may well be his last.

The faces of the guards had plagued him all evening and half the night so he had more or less expected a nightmare to haunt him. He had been working on some arrows just to occupy himself, avoiding sleep because he knew that he would wake up less rested than he was when he entered the world of dreams. He had been right, obviously. It was so easy to kill, much, much easier than it should be, yet impossibly hard to remember. These guards meant nothing. Some lost cash for the sheriff, but he would soon hire new men to take the place of the dead guards. Robin had left some coins with the corpses, an act that was quite different from the usual looting on a battlefield. Normally people would roam the corpses for valuables, even cut up their stomachs to see if they had swallowed their pennies for safe keeping. This way the next of kin would get something for their lost husbands, brothers, sons or fathers. Of course that only worked assuming that the kin got to the bodies first, searched them before Guy and Vaysey had a chance. As help goes it was a chance, one that would play out well only occasionally, but in time word had gotten around amongst the widows and commoners regarding this particular practice. Sometimes you had to trust the goodness in humanity, or, if you preferred to be cynical, the fear that most people harboured about angering Robin Hood. People couldn't afford to bite the hand that fed them in their darkest hour. Thus Robin and John had dropped off the corpses near Clun, and hoped, with some confidence, that the villagers would take care of any valuables for the next of kin. Yet in the end it all did very little to ease the guilt that gnawed on Robin's conscience.

To be honest they had not had much choice but to kill the guards. The outlaws had been cornered. The guards had been far, far too close to the camp to be left to simply run. Robin was used to killing, and thus it came effortless in times of dire need. He knew that you could not think about the men you slaughtered. To be sensitive would kill a soldier. Either that or make him inhumane, because a soft man sometimes had to force himself to be callous in order to survive. Again and again Robin had seen good men get lost in the Holy Land; loosing their sense of humour and joy and gaining a hardness that made them brilliant fighters but only half human. Perhaps the hardness had taken him as well, finally. Yet he knew that the nightmares were proof otherwise, as was the regret and guilt. With a sigh he slid down from his bed and reached for a flask of week ale, but froze with the vessel only grazing his lips. His heart was racing with irrational fear, still lingering from the dream, and he would not be able to swallow the beverage. Instead he walked over to a bowl of water that was placed on the kitchen platform, not bothering to close the door behind him. It wasn't much warmer inside than it was out here in the bluish moonlight anyway. He watched the faint silhouette of his head in the water and began to remember the day, painfully letting the pictures flow over him because he was powerless to stop them.

_The guards were closer than he had thought. Robin knit his hand tighter around the bow and pressed his lips together, watching the four men with a frown. They were cursing over the damned branches, as he himself had done many times in spider-branch vale. There was a web of snakelike bushes that seemed almost alive when you were amidst their gripping fingers, tripping over roots and getting you clothes caught in twigs. He felt almost sorry for them._

_"Master?" Much whispered, but Robin held up a hand to signal for him to hold the position. If they only diverted in time, they might miss the camp entirely. Yet it seemed like the hope was vain. One of the guards stopped suddenly, looking around with a bewildered glare that made Robin curse under his breath and press down so that he was fully concealed by a fallen tree._

_"Oy, don't you smell something, like?" the guard exclaimed to his friends._

_"Yeah, you should take a bath," another of the guards grunted in response and got a chuckle from the two remaining men._

_"Not that! Like—like smoke? Yeah, smells like smoke."_

_Robin inhaled and realised that it did indeed smell like smoke from the camp still - even if he was close to the earthy scent of the forest floor he could still feel the sharp tang of fire in the air._

_"Yeah!" he heard another one of the guards exclaim. "You're right! But who could light a fire here, mind?"_

_"Outlaws—hermits—or those who may never be mentioned..."_

_Robin frowned and dared to peek up from his hiding. The last sentence had been said in a strangely sombre tone and was followed by some grave nods and cross-signs. 'Those who may never be mentioned'? What kind of foolish superstition was that? Fairies perhaps. Robin shook his head with a sarcastic half-smile. He had spent years in the forest and had never seen any fairies, although to be honest he had never mentioned them either. Perhaps they only came when they were called, like a well-trained dog._

_The guards were motionless, wondering what to do next but Robin knew that he could never let them slip now. They knew too much, it might bring them all down. Too many people relied on Robin Hood for him to be a martyr._

_With one smooth motion he nodded at Much and John, put an arrow to the string and drew the recurved bow as easily as if it had been a mere extension of his own body. The first man fell with a twang and a thud. Not even as the guards started to shout and wave their swords aimlessly around was there much of a fight really. The battle was so clean and fast, the arrows so silent and deadly, that it was over before it started. Some birds flapped their wings and shot up like projectiles from the shrubberies; black shapes against the gray sky, and then there was silence. Four bodies remained tangled in the branches, resting on them like scarecrows fallen over in a storm rather than collapsed flat on the ground. The threat was neutralised. _

Robin splashed some water on his face to come back to the world, but found it hard to leave the dream and all it meant behind. He really didn't have a choice; just wished that the so called battle hadn't been so uneven. He hated the feeling of not giving his opponents a fair chance. Robin gave out a low moan as he remembered the words that he had uttered as he returned to the camp, that the guards would go to hell for their alliances. Those words were so far away from all that he knew as himself that they shocked him more than anyone. The silence in the camp, accusing and bewildered, had been nothing to the feeling of pure repulsion that hugged his heart inside. What did alliances have to do with heaven or hell? People needed food, and for food they needed money. It was a line of work for those who were left with little choices. Not all guards were cruel and power hungry. Some were just men, ordinary and desperate. Much and John had treated him different the rest of the day. John was silent when they left the bodies at Clun, but not in his usual respectful way. Instead he seemed to simply not find any words, and that had made the silence awkward. Of course Much had talked as he always did during dinner, but he was nervous in a way that he usually wasn't around Robin.

Then there was Melinda Baker. The poor widow who watched him, always; who asked questions and didn't respect his lack of answers. She had not been shocked as the other two. There had been something about her that made Robin feel uncomfortable; a certain feeling of bitter smugness in her demeanour, as if she just had her ideas somehow corroborated. For a moment she had been the girl who smiled 'I told you so' at her friend's misfortune before she rushed to help them. Robin wondered why. All the time she watched and studied him, her curiosity obvious and slightly disturbing, but he was too weary to care. Let her watch, judge if she will. She must have very little joy left in her life if she still lingered here with the outlaws.

As always the thoughts wandered from here, finding refuge in the memories that both hurt the most and gave the most joy all the same. He did not ask himself what Marian might think of this, too scared to face the answer, but he thought of her. His back arched up to a sky that was less clear than in his dream but still reflected some lonely stars in the bowl of water. His body still trembled, his heart still beat loud and drowned all external sound, and he was still dizzy with irrational fear. Again he splashed his face with water, leaning his weight on the bowl. He wouldn't sleep tonight. Instead he would sit with his back against the wall and fear the darkness, fear the memories, and fear the constant dilemmas of an idealistic mind. Every thought was a demon in nights like this. A tear hit the water surface and Robin rubbed his eyes almost violently. This was too much. Life was too much, love was too much. Oblivious of the world he leaned down deeper into the bowl, his fringe dipping into the liquid. What had he become? Sometimes he thought he didn't know himself any longer, and perhaps that was his greatest fear of all.

--

Robin was not the only person awake that night. Melinda had not slept, but rather brooded over the vengeance that had to be exerted. She had one eye firmly on the man who first sat working his arrows for hours, then fell into a restless sleep oblivious of her resentful looks. She would never take him in open combat, she knew that, practical as she was even in rage, yet she didn't want to use something as sneaky as poison. Nor did she wish to involve Guy, unwilling to give her husband's cruel employer that kind of triumph. It seemed fair that Robin Hood would die by a blade at least, a clean cut, much like he must have imagined his death to be; swift and merciless. Warriors like him were so rarely left to fade away that Melinda even convinced herself that it would have tortured him to die like that, a prolonged suffering that took away all dignity from a man. Thus she had been holding the long knife in her hand, twisting it nervously with her heart beating loudly in her chest. There came a low moan from Robin's bed and the structure creaked as the outlaw was tossed from dream to wake within seconds. For some time Melinda sat still and studied him, a trembling shape in the darkness whose movements seemed twitchy without their usual agility, collecting her courage before she felt steady enough to rise and follow him out onto the kitchen platform.

Robin did not see the shadows changing as a second human stepped up behind him, nor the faint spot of light as the knife in Melinda's hand caught the moonlight. She hesitated for a while before she took position by Robin's crouched figure and raised the blade high above his exposed back. She breathed shallowly, legs spread wide to keep her steady and the knife gripped so hard in her hands that it hurt. She thought the pain kept her focused, her entire being transferred into a single action.

For sometime she stood frozen and watched her target. He was trembling in his linen shirt, a dirty garment that was worn thin and clung to his back. His spine formed a ragged ridge and there were faint horizontal stripes from his ribcage, the shoulder blades like stubs from broken wings and muscles playing restlessly under the skin with every sharp breath. Seconds went by, slow like honey while Melinda remained stiff and Robin trembling. So unaware, so infinitely vulnerable. The hero and his murderer made an odd couple in the bluish, early winter night. Melinda didn't crave power. The raised blade and his ignorance made her feel sad if anything, but it still satisfied her to know that her life would end and do so in peace, her husband revenged and a dangerous man dead. Of course she wouldn't survive this. She would remain by his bloody body and let his men have their way with her. Always a practical woman she did not expect mercy any more than she was willing to give it. Her life was reduced to this. No hope for future joy, no wish to pick up her life and move on, just a sharpened knife and her vengeance. She held her breath as she raised the knife up high, then plunged it down towards her prey in a smooth arch that seemed almost ritual.

Robin wasn't sure when he sensed the change. Later it would occur to him that it had been a feeling in the air, perhaps just a change in the way the winds blew over the platform. Somehow the winds felt dulled behind him, muffled in a way that made a warning chill run down his spine. He felt himself tense and listened. Sure enough, there were breaths, shallow and trembling, and he knew that moment that he wasn't alone. Something kept him from turning around right away, a sensation that the situation was hostile and might get worse with rash movements. It was too dark too see a reflection in the bowl of water so he trusted in his other senses. When the arm with the knife was lowered towards him Robin threw himself to the side, sensing the movement just in time, and the blade hit the bowl instead. With a hollow sound of wood on wood the bowl fell down and a puddle of water was soon sucked up by the floor. In the midst lay the shape of a woman, the knife still in her hand although the way she held it seemed somehow dejected. Robin scrambled to his feet and gawked at her, still unable to fully grasp the situation. He had hit the wall and there was a dull ache in his shoulder, but the weapon had missed him. _The weapon._

With the survival instinct of a warrior Robin tugged the knife from Melinda's hand, easily dodging a final half-hearted attack from the woman on the floor. Her skirts sprawled out around her so that she seemed like a pile of cloth, the dull, frizzy hair a nest that covered her face. What little he saw of her features seemed hollow; unsmiling, unfrowning, uncrying.

"Well," she murmured in a raspy voice. "That's it then. I'm sorry Tommy love."

"Tommy?" Robin questioned her, still in shock over this unsuspected threat to his life. His heart was beating so hard that it hurt and his emotions were a mess. He was too surprised to feel the rightful anger over such a cowardly assassination attempt, trying desperately to make sense of this. Was it still a dream? Perhaps his life would be like this now, a series of nightmares layered so that he woke from one just to be plunged into the next. The thought was irrational yet the fear felt real enough. He wondered who Tommy was, and if maybe this was Melinda's dream as well, that they were trapped in it together a contrary to all the laws of nature.

"My husband," Melinda then sneered in a somewhat slurry voice. "Tom's mi husband. Was, that is."

Robin frowned. Her husband, of course. It made sense that she would think about him in a time like this. With a bitter insight he realised that he for a moment had doubted that she even had a husband. By trying to kill him she had become a stranger and he had assumed that everything about her was a lie, even the widow story. A first tug of rage stuck him when the most obvious answer of this riddle came to him.

"Guy!" he barked; his eyes wide in contempt and his lips strained into a snarl. "Guy hired you didn't he!?"

Melinda laughed, a hoarse joyless sound that seemed more like bitter weeping to Robin's ears. '_Weep all you want little girl'_, he thought while the resentment lay like a stone in his stomach, '_but leave the bitterness to me'_. There were noises coming from inside the camp and Little John and Much dashed out, yawning and blinking the sleep from their eyes.

"What is going on here?" John grunted annoyed while his eyes, slightly older as he was, gradually got used to the faint light.

"Mel," Much added. "Mel, why are you on the floor? Are you alright? Robin?"

"Don't touch me," Melinda hissed as Much crouched down by her and he twitched and backed off as if he had been burned. He gave Robin a quizzical look, his jaw hanging loose in the confused face that still was a bit drowsy from sleep. "Don't touch me," Melinda repeated and started to crawl over to the other side of the platform, sitting slumped with her back against the wall and her skirts creased up to her knees. She gave Robin a look, met his fury and bewilderment with infinite serenity.

"Well Much, you heard the lady. Don't touch her," Robin said to his friend, his voice thick with restrained anger. "She has some explaining to do. Guy hired you, didn't he?" She smiled and remained calm, provoking Robin to take a step towards her. "Didn't he?!" he yelled in a rain of saliva.

"No," she snorted. "Guy did not 'hire' me. I used 'im I did, if anything."

"Used him? Used Guy? Robin! What is this!?" Much exclaimed. "I don't understand!"

"Let me enlighten you then, dear friend. She tried to kill me, that is what this is," Robin sneered in response. He tossed the knife so that it spun in perfectly controlled curves around its centre before it hit the wall over Melinda with a low thud, burying the tip deep in the wood.

"What?!" Much yelled. "Master, John, she—I—we have to—oh!"

"We don't have to do anything!" Robin shouted, stopping John in his movements. The big man was already half way up to the woman, his staff gripped tightly in his hands and his face distorted into a scowl. "Not until she explains herself."

Melinda raised her eyebrow at him. "Really?" she murmured. "Very well, tis easy enough lads. My husband was called Tommy Baker. Do you know 'im?" The confusion in the outlaws' faces made Melinda laugh, although she did not truly seem amused. "No of course you don't. He was just a guard, just like them lads you killed today. I'm sure you don't know them either, nor their wives. You wouldn't, would you? No one cares about a guard do they? Never cared naught about my Tommy."

Robin felt the rage leave him, disperse like air, as it slowly occurred to him what this was all about. Tommy Baker, the name seemed familiar enough and now he knew why. He had been one of the city guards and this was his grieving widow, one of the victims of the widely praised precision with which Robin's beloved bow hit its targets. Suddenly it seemed to Robin like the dream this night had not merely been a dream, but an omen of sorts. The men he had killed had if fact come back to haunt him, although not in the shape of gray ghosts. It was a woman; a widow who hated him so much that she had given her life to revenge.

"I killed him didn't I?" Robin whispered into the night, and Melinda nodded. He bit down on his lower lip and the silence fell in the camp, waiting for the leader to say something, anything, to break the curse. The guilt was so thick and suffocating that it felt like it had a life of its own.

"Master?" Much finally said, cautiously as if he was walking over broken glass. "Master, what do we do now?"

Robin looked at his men, the two that remained, then at the camp that was falling apart and the woman who had set out to be his nemesis. He tried to feel something for her, the right kind of anger, but it was impossible to find any emotion besides pity. It was not even a bitter kind of pity; this sympathy was honest and so forceful that it hurt.

"We will let her go," he finally responded, softly with a shrug as if he tried to dismiss the gravity of the statement.

"What?!" Much exclaimed and stared at Robin in naked shock. "Master surely! She tried to kill you!"

"Yes she did," Robin sighed and tried to find the right words, something to make Much and John understand this. "Just like I tried to kill Guy," he continued, "Just like I killed her husband. Don't you see? It never ends! However rightful the retribution you cannot stop violence like this with force. Hate breeds hate, Much. That is what the war in the Holy Land is about. It started as an ideal and then it went on and on in ever increasing circles. First you killed because of God and they killed you because you tried to kill them. Then eventually you simply killed because they tried to kill you, and no one stops to think because retaliation always makes sense. She isn't a bad person—she is," he hesitated for a while and watched her sadly, "she is me. And I am her, although I am sure that torments her beyond words."

"But," Much stammered, "But it is different! Guy is a bad person, you are not."

"But I didn't try to kill Guy because he is a bad person Much! I tried to kill him because of hate. It's the same reasons why she wants me dead. Hate. Always hate."

Robin and Melinda stared at each other over the camp, her face puzzled and unsure how to react. He saw his feelings mirrored in her, a bit distorted by the reflection but the similarity was noticeable. How would he have reacted if he was in her position right now? If she was anything like him forgiveness might be too much to ask for. With a bitter tug in his stomach he realised just how deep into trouble they really were. The guards had been the first sign, and now this. If they let her go they could not stay in the camp, and they lacked the resources to keep a prisoner.

"But surely," Much continued and looked at Robin with confused, pleading eyes. "If we let her go she will bring Guy's men here!"

"I doubt it," Robin sighed. "I do not think she wishes to hurt you or John."

"But still! We cannot risk it master! We cannot!"

"No, Much. You are right; we cannot risk it. We will have to leave the camp, let her run once we have packed and find a new place for our winter dwellings." Robin's voice was so rational and detached that it surprised him, mismatched as it was to the true desperation raging in his chest. He was a leader. He could not afford to panic, especially not since Much always handled that bit so well.

"What!?" Much looked at John for support, but the big man just shrugged.

"We leave the camp," Little John grunted, then added rather bitterly, "Her I do not like!" before he walked into the sleeping quarters again and threw away his staff. Much stared after him before he let his shoulders sink and slumped down on a bench.

"I was starting to like this place," he whined to no one particular. "It's not much of a home really. No real fireplace, draughty and damp—but it is—it is home. Isn't it?"

Robin nodded. "I'm sorry Much." He was sorry, truly sorry to do this to his most loyal men. Yet he had no choice.

"Well, hardly your fault," Much murmured. "Her fault, more like it." He watched Melinda in resigned hate. "I _liked _you!"

"I liked you too," she said in response, although her voice was strangely flat and aloof.

"I mean," Much continued hesitantly, "We should just kill you and have it done with!"

"Ay, so you should."

"But we won't," Much cocked his head at Robin. "Couldn't slay a woman anyway. Feels wrong, doesn't it? A widow at that."

"It feels wrong because it is wrong," Robin smiled sadly, then tossed a piece of hemp rope to Much. "Tie her up. Tomorrow we pack our things and start moving the stores. This will be a hard winter."

As if nature wished to seal the deal a soft snowflake danced down and melted on Robin's nose, making him tilt his head to the sky where the stars were fading behind growing clouds. Melinda's arms were limp when Much tied them, her face inaccessible and concealed by darkness. Perhaps she had been sent as a warning, to tell Robin the dangers of vengeance. It was another irrational thought in this odd night, but in times like this even a hero sometimes had to trust in something bigger, something that made the pointlessness seem meaningful. Once again the sympathy washed over him, knowing that letting her go wouldn't truly set her free. She was trapped just like he was, locked in by the grief and hate that haunted her. How odd it was that he had nearly been murdered by a person like her, who was in so many ways driven by the same feelings as he himself harboured towards another man. Right now she was Robin and Robin was Guy, her anger rightful because it was his anger as well. He knew her, felt her, pitied her. In the night Robin found himself wishing, more for her than for him, that she would find it in her heart to forgive him. Perhaps then she might find the precious peace that eluded those who never managed to let go.

* * *

**NEXT: More interesting events takes place further south somewhere.**


	20. Chapter 19: Counted Blessings

Hey, I don't have time to answer everyone, just know that your comments are much appreciated. :- It is not my best chapter, but I have been swamped w work so I don't really have the energy. Hope you like it anyway. Trying to get all threads together, get people back to England and finish the fic :)

_This has happened (in case you have forgotten): _

Robin, Much and LJ has been forced to leave their camp because of Melinda Baker's betrayal. Guy and the sheriff are scheming.

King Richard and Marian have been captured in Germany. Carter got away and is heading back to England.

Djaq and Will are still in the Holy Land.

Allan and Luke are stuck in a church in France with a French girl called Griet de Sael.

… And finally Queen Aliénor is on a mission to negotiate Richard's ransom and gather funds to get him released. She is currently in France, where we now find her.

**Chapter 19: Counted blessings**

_-In which the queen mother Eleanor will be consistently by her French name Aliénor and there is some random stuff happening_

At least life wasn't boring. Queen Aliénor of Aquitaine knew to count her blessings, and even in the winter of her life the lack of boredom certainly counted for something. The wagon jerked as it hit a bump in the road and she sneered out an insult at the driver. No, boring it was not, but in times like this, it was wearing. The queen shuffled away the curtain and looked out at the landscape that crept by; flat fields where farmers moved with curved backs, men and women alike, gray and aged before their time by the laborious life they led. To watch them was another sign of the passing of time for the queen mother, knowing that no man nor woman on those fields were anywhere near her own impressive age. It was a foolish noblewoman who expected to live to see her children grow old, yet she had lived now for seven decades and more. She had been to the Holy land; married twice and divorced once; been imprisoned by her husband and released by her son; indeed, she had even held a love court that became the cultural nave in a crude countryside. It was a long life, yet in spite of that she sometimes felt like the world would fall apart without her. Her sons, to talk about life's little blessings, may be grown men, but all men were essentially boys at heart and boys needed their mother.

"It is just like when they were lads," she sighed aloud to the councillor and lady in waiting who accompanied her on the trip. Lady Blanche smiled one of her jovial smirks, forming little dimples in her round cheeks like holes in a Swiss cheese, and the curl of slate gray hair that had escaped the wimple fell down across her eye. She was a woman of a constant good mood, with dark gray eyes that seemed to twinkle mischievously by some secret jest, even when she frowned. The councillor, a man called Marcel Bizou, on the other hand, was as meagre and troubled as the lady in waiting was round and cheerful. He was a lanky, middle-aged man with gnarled joints and a skeletal face that bobbed in tiny bows when he spoke - as if his head was a bit too heavy for the stingy neck to carry.

"Well, your Excellency," he said in a voice that was almost painfully slow and nasal. "Boys will be boys."

"Yes, so they say Marcel, so they say. Indeed," the queen laughed, "daughters may be twice the trouble but sons are trouble for twice the time! Or more, if one is to live past one's prime years. I'm beginning to think grown children are the curse of aging. I have virtually no authority over them but I still have to clean up their mess. And they are such messy boys, are they not?"

"Very messy indeed, Ali dear," Lady Blanche laughed. "I wonder where they got that from, hm?"

"Oh shush! I was never such a troublesome young noble," the queen hissed, although her eyes betrayed a smile that acknowledged the truth in the statement. "But they are good boys, they are. My brave little Richy-- and dear Johnny too, in his way. And Henry and Geoff—even little William, bless him! Oh Blanche, remember my sweet Marie and Alix, unwanted as she was, how young I was back when they were cubs," she continued to name her many children with a fond and rather absentminded smile on her lips. "Matilda, Leonora and Joan," She laughed and hit her lady in waiting on the knee in a shared joke that was as old as their friendship. "Oh my dear! If the nobles of Europe end up marrying their cousins for generations to come I do think it will be partly my doing! A big family it is."

"Your Excellency has been very productive indeed," Marcel pursed his lips as if he had bitten down on a lemon. "It is no joking matter, but a great pride on her ladyship's name."

"And very practical if your descendants would ever need a reason to get their marriages annulled, Ali dear!" Lady Blanche laughed loudly. Consanguinity - to belong to the same bloodline - was sometimes used as a reason for divorce among the high nobility, and had even been used when Eleanor needed to part with her first husband. Of course one shouldn't marry ones cousin in the first place, but the nobility was notoriously inbred and a distant cousin was after all much better than some common born nobody.

"Well, so it is," the queen sighed and the carriage jerked again, making the ladies curse the poorly kept country roads. "Oh woe this tiresome journey! I wish I was a pigeon and could fly. No, I wish Marcel was a pigeon and I a twig in his beak! He could fly me from town to town and there would be no more cursed roads."

"We are soon in Brion, Your Excellency," Marcel pointed out.

"Yes, another glorified village with newly rich bourgeois behaving like nobles. Oh Richard! What do you do to your poor mother!?" she sighed again. "Well, we will have to get to Germany soon, it is needful that I discuss this matter of the ransom with the emperor. Richard would only make it worse with his pride, and I am not sure that Johnny even wants his bother to escape captivity."

"They have always bickered like two kittens sharing a mouse, that is true enough," Lady Blanche smiled fondly. "Although they are dear boys, the pair of them."

"Dear boys, dear boys! They are grown men and fools at that," the queen snapped, suddenly out of patience with the bumpy roads that had deteriorated as the fields had given way to a sparse forest. "Are we there yet? Marcel, ask the driver if we are there yet, will you?"

"Driver! Are we there yet!?" The councillor's voice took on a nasty edge, commanding and hostile, as always when he spoke with socially inferior people.

"Ay!" came the cheerful response.

"Yes, Your Excellency," Marcel translated. "Not far now."

"Not far, you say. All that pig of a man blurted out was 'ay'. It could mean hours!"

"Not hours!" the driver yelled back. "There's the grazing, you see, after the grove, then the meadows and fields, then there is Brion like a smudge on the map. We'll be there before twilight, and a blessing it is because there is not a proper inn on the way. We're lucky it's not raining! Would take twice the time on these roads, ay so it is"

Queen Eleanor leaned back into the uncomfortable seat and rolled her eyes. At least it didn't rain he said. Yes, one really had to count one's blessings.

The winters were wet and chilly rather than freezing this far south in France, but when the sun sunk behind the horizon the air in church became raw and damp. The ale was bitter but comforting, a deep golden beverage that spilled out over the fair cloth in Griet's dress when she laughed. Her skirts were scrunched and still lay tucked up into a fluffy fold over the belt, making her ankles look tiny under the waves of fabric. Their eyes were out of focus and constantly missed their targets and Luke looked drowsy while Allan got over-animated by the ale.

"I spent most of my childhood travelling around England," Griet slurred and leaned back to the chilled stone wall. "I met one nobleman after the other and was presented as their bastard daughter. They were old- really old friends of my mother, all of them. She was very—very sociable. I never knew how old I was because she kept changing my age to fit with the time schedule," She hid her mouth behind her hand and gave out a rather drunken giggle, as if the memory this little con still amused her immensely. "In one village I was five, in the next I was seven. Robert of Locksley," she smiled and cocked her eyebrow. "He must be the father of this Robin Hood you speak so fondly of. Don't snort, you do speak fondly. He could be my brother you know, although chances are slim. Anyway, I would hardly stress our shared blood in his current unfavourable circumstances. The older Sir Robert – he was quite a—quite a man. He was a man who made extravagant promises but kept them but rarely. When you were with him you had all of him, but when he left he left nothing behind. It is in the nature of noblemen to be easily diverted and I think not commoners are much different."

"Oi, I'm not like that!" Allan exclaimed indignantly.

"Of course you're not," Griet smiled sweetly, getting a suspicious glance from Allan who never was too drunk to notice sarcasm. "But then again, half a breath after you met me you bought me a silver pin and called me the rose of your heart. You do not think that is fickle? You would not have remembered me at all had I not been accidentally abducted into this story."

"You don't know that though. I might 'ave spent my life dreaming of the luscious French lass I met one sunny winter day in—in France."

"I surely hope not since that would make you rather pathetic."

"Nah it would make me a poet," Allan grinned.

"You speak of that as if it is a good thing," Griet responded with a chirping laughter. "A poet is all words, too many words. Words mean very little when you use them in abundance, it only waters them down."

"But didn't they have wives?" Luke interrupted Allan's response, lifting his eyes and trying to focus them with some effort.

"Oh dear," Griet responded softly. "You do not know much of the world do you? A noble marriage is seldom based on _les souhaits du coeur_."

"Lesohatts de wha'?" Allan slurred.

"The wishes of the heart if you will. My mother gave these men a little tenderness; I do not think that is such a bad thing."

"Nah," Allan grinned and shuffled himself closer to the luscious French girl. "I would take your version of tenderness anytime."

"I am sure you would," Griet laughed and held him on a distance, although playfully, as if to hint that she wasn't unwilling as much as simply required a bit more effort from his side. "Anyway, eventually my mother married a widower. He knew nothing of our past life of course, only that my mother was a woman of beauty and thus pure. Men are easily led astray - age only makes them more desperate, rather than wise. So we all moved to Paris. It is strange. For the first time ever my mother offered me security and still I have never felt more _perdu_. Lost. To change, to truly change, you have to deny history. I don't mind that, I really don't. But I just couldn't face the fact that this new life would last and last... and last. It made me feel trapped like… To know that there was no ending. That things would simply go on for all eternity! It was like—denying not only history but also the future. Who would want that? Thus I decided to leave, once I was old enough." She fell silent and an absentminded smile grazed her lips. "And then I left," she finished. "_Le fin ou le début_. The end or the beginning."

"But then you have never had a real home?" Luke exclaimed in the silence that followed. "It's just—that is sad."

"Well, perhaps I think it is sad to wish for nothing but for things to stay the same. You pick a point in time when things seemed decent and spend your life trying to recreate that. When your brother chooses to stay in this Holy Land so you go dashing after him like a puppy!"

"I just don't want to be alone," Luke murmured. "Everything disappears from me. My parents, my brother, our village. I'm so sick of loosing things! Sick—sick of it."

"You should think less about the things that are lost and more about the things you have gained," Griet slurred, since she was the kind of person that thinks ale makes her wiser. "I am sure your life has had it perks, you are far too normal to be truly _misérable_."

She leaned out to lay her hand on the English boy's head, stoking the dishevelled hair warmly. Her back was turned to Allan so that she missed the frown and sudden tenseness in his posture at this display of tenderness. Eventually Luke curled up and fell into a restless sleep with his head uncomfortable dipped down to rest on his chest, and Griet missed every single tone in the French lullaby which she had forgotten all the words to, yet sung all the same.

"I am too nosy for my own good and far too restless to be happy anywhere," she suddenly exclaimed with a yawn as she straightened her back and turned to Allan. Her voice was surprisingly clear and loud, slightly hollow as it was echoed between the walls. "Thus I always have one foot in the air. Forget what I said about my father and my mother; nosy and restless like a wind - that is Griet de Sael. Now tell me, who is Allan-a-Dale?"

"Me?" Allan smiled. " I'm just a bloke looking out for number one I guess. Keeping my nose above the water or whatever. That is all there is, innit? All there is to life is to keep living."

Griet gave him a rather quirky smile and crawled over the floor in a way that Luke would have considered inappropriate, had he been awake. "That is what you want to believe," she responded flatly. "Give me a month," she smiled and leaned in to rest her head on Allan's lap where he sat slumped against the wall. He tensed as he felt the weight on his thigh, then relaxed and buried his fingers in her hair, not bothering to fight the rather smug smile spreading over his face. "Then I will tell you who you are," Griet murmured into the moss green wool of his trousers before sleep claimed her drunken mind.

Luke snored loudly where he lay curled up, his nose thick by a stubborn winter cold that he had been fighting to and fro since Normandy. You got used to other people's noises. When Allan had been working for Guy he found the silence disturbing, unnaturally dead and cold. It deprived him of his sleep through the nights so he dozed off during the work day instead. He recalled those days like little snippets with blurry edges, not sure where they ended or began. _Looking out for number one_. Allan snorted and took another gulp of the bitter ale, spinning his fingers around Griet's curls that lay sprawled over his lap. What a joke he was. Even though she had been drunk and her eyes slightly out of focus Allan knew that look anywhere. It was the kind of look he had spent his life avoiding. It said_ 'I don't believe you'_.

No, it was worse.

It said _'I see right though you'_, and Allan didn't even see right though Allan. You weren't supposed too see right through him. There were too many layers of lies and charades to get through, built up over the years like a giant cairn. He hadn't even intended his statement to be a lie. What was true and what was simply another game to keep your nose over water? Looking out for number one was all he had ever consciously aspired for in his life. Yet he wasn't doing that now, was he? He was in France looking out for a young fool called Luke Scarlett. One look and Griet de Sael revealed a lie he didn't even know that he had told her.

His stomach tingled with worry. Well, it tingled and it had to be worry; they were in trouble after all. Worry and ale. He glanced at the curled up young boy that snored so loudly and the tingling increased slightly, forcing a smile from his lips. Yeah well, obviously he was a bit worried over Luke as well. It was the ale that did it. Then Griet gave out a low mumbling sound and rolled over to the other side, her head pressing lightly against his stomach, and he felt her breath warm against his hand as he gently cupped the round cheek. The world flipped and for a moment Allan felt dizzy and dazed, blood surging in his ears with the pounding heartbeats. The tingling became a torrent and he gave the empty flask a rather hostile look, cursing the volatile effects of alcohol.

Damn it.

He would have preferred worry, he really would. Yet not even the ale was enough to fool him, and the faint rustling from a guard outside the door did naught to increase the tingling. It wasn't worry. It wasn't even the ale. This would be so much harder to deal with. Allan-a-Dale certainly wasn't used to being overwhelmed with this kind of bewildering tenderness.

The queen mother of England was an early riser. The three hung-over thugs who occupied the church, however, certainly weren't. Yet time had come for Allan-a-Dale and Aliénor of Aquitaine to meet, and before the day was over another journey would be diverted. When the queen stepped through Brion, striding on with determined paces like the lady she was, it was barely dawn. The light was pallid and cold over the town where the whitewashed houses stood silent, and it was chilly enough for Aliénor to pull the heavy wool cloak tighter around her matron-like figure.

"My lady, are you sure you need the church at this early hour?" the mayor stammered nervously where he went by her side. He wore a crucifix so heavy that the chain made an indentation in his fat neck and a light wind blew up his cloak into a sail behind him. The queen sighed. This man would gladly drag her all around his unimpressive town, telling the tale of every dull alleyway with all the pride of a man showing off his riches, yet he treated the church as if it was a black hole in the city plan. It made her wonder if he was hiding something, and it had made her all the more determined to see this church of his.

"I will get this done and be on my way," she snapped. "Marcel! Blanche! Why is this man pestering me? It is too early in the morning for social calls!"

Marcel closed his thin fingers around the mayor's arm and tugged him away with surprising strength, leaving a dejected look in the mayor's flustered face. The queen's personal guard closed around him like a wall and Aliénor stepped into the plain church with her head cocked. She drew in the damp air with a shudder and looked around. There were a few wax candles lit, yet the room looked more like a cave than anything, the floor worn and bare since the only seating was a few rickety benches by the wall, intended for the oldest. The paintings on the walls were crude and the architecture old-fashioned. It was as could be expected. The three snoring shapes on the floor, however, was something of a surprise.

"Pray tell me, Marcel," Lady Blanche exclaimed when the group had recovered from the initial surprise. "It is custom in this part of the country to have squatters in the house of God?"

Marcel remained silent, as he often was when the chubby lady spoke to him, then gestured at the guard to be on at their ready and urged the queen to step back.

"Don't fuss Marcel," Aliénor sighed. One of the squatters moved, rolled over and slung a lazy arm around one of the other shapes, female judging by the masses of cloth. The queen didn't know it then, but the lazy arm belonged to Allan-a-Dale, tossing in a restless sleep and every now and then speaking out loud from whatever dream he was engaged in. Many of Allan's dream-comments were of such nature that they made Luke Scarlett's cheeks burn and blossom, but this time the elder man merely murmured something that sounded suspiciously like 'I didn't do it!'.

"Oh they are English," the queen exclaimed. "That explains the lack of style. Wake them up and bring them to me, this is the most interesting event that has occurred for days."

It was a rude awakening for Allan-a-Dale, Luke Scarlett and Griet de Sael that morning. A rustling of chainmail and some forceful shuffles forced them to open their eyes and find themselves surrounded by guards. Oddly enough neither of the three froze with fear. Allan and Griet were not the panicking type, knowing that you usually got way with only so much that you appeared to expect to get away with, and Luke was too hung over to think in a straight line.

"And here I thought it was all a bad dream, like," Allan grunted bitterly by waking up to cold steel rather than a warm, female embrace.

"These are not city guards," Griet yawned and temporarily distracted Allan from the danger by arching her back and stretching her arms over her head. "I do not know them." She stood up and met the guard's eyes with her usual bold stare, smiling in a sweet but not very friendly way. "And what do you gentlemen think you are doing, drawing steel in the house of our Lord?" she snapped and created a short moment of confusion among the ranks. She had a commanding way of speaking that made people feel like they should listen, and Allan gave her an approving grin. The swords were lowered to a less intimidating pose and the guard backed off slightly, a tiny gesture that still made Griet beam with triumph since she had won the first scrap. It was a symbolic victory but a victory all the same, that they listened to her in spite of her lack of true authority.

"I feel sick," Luke moaned.

"Course you do mate," Allan grinned. "Don't throw up in the font, mind."

Luke grunted and opened his eyes to the dusky light, thinking it was too light with the sun streaming in through the door. There were people there; important-looking silhouettes that he had a feeling would give him a headache. Allan would have to deal with this. He couldn't even make the world stop spinning.

Queen Aliénor watched this awakening with keen eyes and ordered the three strangers to be shuffled to her side. In reality they wasn't as much shuffled as escorted, and only the younger man fell down into some sort of kneeling position. He looked flustered and sick, yet he displayed a peasant's crude humbleness. The other man stood bold as brass and faced her with a grin while the girl gave her an almost mockingly graceful curtsy.

"Oy, aren't we lucky, this must be the queen and all," The cocky man slurred a bit when he spoke, as if he wasn't quite awake yet. "I'm Allan-a-Dale," he yawned. "This lovely lass is Griet and the lad on the floor is called Luke."

Marcel opened his mouth to say something but the queen dismissed him with a twitch of her wrist. She didn't display any surprise at the informal greetings, merely stood like a monument over regal pride and composure, but Lady Blanche gawked so much that her eyes seemed huge in the puffy face.

"I know what you want to say Marcel," the queen snapped. "_It is an insolence to speak to Her Excellency the Queen in such a manner_, and you are right of course. Yet I will hear them out. Now I have your names young man," she addressed Allan, "but they are of no interest. Why are you here?"

"Well, you know Robin Hood?" Allan responded. "We're his mates, like, and I was thinking, he is on the king's side right?" He fell silent and watched the queen with a grin. "Well, you're his mum." He grinned some more. "And we're Robin's friends, or whatever." More grins. "I reckon that makes us mates of sorts. Not being funny but mates help each other out—or so I 'ave heard."

"You are friends of Robin Hood you say?" Alinénor asked rhetorically, still without so much as raising an eyebrow. "I have met this young man, yet I do nor recall seeing you there."

"Nah I was--" Allan frowned and stopped himself before he said too much. It wouldn't do him any good to admit that he had betrayed Robin for a period of time. It wasn't like it mattered now, it was all over, but the queen might not see it his way. "I was away, mind you," he said instead. "Got this little trinket though." He fished up a tag that hung around his neck and grinned with the triumph of a man who just played out his winning card.

"Such a tag could easily be stolen." The queen looked bluntly unimpressed and Allan let the tag fall down with a sigh.

"Yeah right, I stole it in Nottingham, then travelled all though France to find the bloody queen mother in order to wait for her in a church. Not bloody likely mind you."

"It does sound a bit farfetched," Aliénor admitted. "But I resent being called a 'bloody queen mother' young man. Now tell me this story of yours, and no more insults or I may have you beheaded before you reach the punch line."

The queen sat down on the bench by the wall with her lady in waiting sitting by her side. Lady Blanche, who still gawked at the rude strangers, gave out little yelps of excitement when Allan came to some gory, and often rather exaggerated, detail in his tale, while the queen merely nodded every now and then to spur the storyteller on.

"…chased like rats we were," Allan finished the tale with a sort of crescendo; the poor, misunderstood Englishmen who were chased though the town by ruthless French guards. "Could feel the swords on my back I could, not cold steel mind you. Nah you feel the wind you see, like a shadow of death. Ghastly it was. Then we saw it, the church, and I just knew that it was our only chance. God would keep us safe or whatever. It was like a divine embrace…" he made a short pause and grinned at the girl called Griet, who blushed wildly without seeming shy about it. A divine embrace indeed! "Anyway, that was it and 'ere we are."

Silence fell in the church, yet it was the kind of silence that could be broken by the falling of a needle, since everything echoed between the thick walls. Marcel coughed. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again so that he resembled a fish on land. Lady Blanche's eyes were wide open and her wrinkly face seemed oddly childish. She twisted her hands. Luke wondered if it was acceptable to lie down in front of the queen, then swallowed another wave of nausea and decided he couldn't afford doing something odd. Allan grinned. Griet smiled.

"Well," the queen finally said. "That is some story. You are on your way to the Holy Land you say?"

"We were," Allan agreed.

"We are!" Luke exclaimed, raising his head so suddenly that the world started spinning violently and he gave out a low moan. "We are, Allan! We are going to the Holy Land to get Will! Why do you say _we were_?"

"Yeah but all is changed now, innit? Robin's darling king's arrested 'n all. I bet the sheriff has sweet talked Prince John by now. You know he always said the prince was like a blind man, right? You 'ave to lead him or 'e would just stand doing naught while all the chances passed 'im by. Not being funny but this is what Vaysey's been waiting for! Yeah, it'll be a bloody riot. One of those 'copp etats'…"

"Coup d'état darling," Griet corrected him.

"Yeah that was I said innit? Look, Lukey, Robs will 'ave sent the pigeon for Will and Djaq anyway. It was for emergencies and he'll think this is bloody important. I'm telling you Luke, if we go there now we will find naught but bloody pigeons! What's the point of that?"

"But you don't know that! You're just giving—giving everything up because—because you have found some—some—some _better_ way to pass your time! You think you got a chance on pulling Griet so you abandon your best friend in the Holy Land!"

"Will won't mind tough, it's not like he's expecting us or anything—" Allan fell silent, forced his words trail off as he realised the futility of this argument, and let the grin die in his face. After all, what Luke said was true, in a way. Allan was sick of this travel; he would rather stay here for a while, lounging in Griet's arms and learn a word of French or two. Yet he was also right, and deep inside he knew it, simply because he knew how dishonest minds worked. He knew treachery. He knew the sheriff and Guy. He knew greed. He knew that they would strike, and it would happen soon, the wheels all in motion, the traps all planted. Richard was weak now, and they would use that to their advantage. Furthermore Allan also knew Robin, he knew the workings of idealism and devotion, and he knew that the outlaw leader would call back all his men if the battle of England was reaching its final stand. It made no sense going to the Holy Land just because Luke was stubborn, not when Will was likely to be on his way back to England anyway.

"Look, Luke--"

"No you look Allan!"

"My son John," the queen interrupted their argument. "Allan, you mentioned my regal, although occasionally rather foolish, young son. What is this talk of my John?"

"Look," Allan responded, throwing out his arms in a disarming way. "I know you're all high and mighty and I'm just a bloke who hijacked the church, but I know a thing or two about mixing with the wrong crowd, right?"

"Allan, we're going to the Holy Land," Luke insisted, pressing out the words between clenched teeth. "We have to go there!"

"Shut up, Luke!" Allan snapped. "I'm talking to the queenie. Listen, your lad is in trouble. Both of them, in a way."

"Will is in trouble as well," Luke continued his argument, although his expression grew increasingly dejected.

"Will's alright," Allan mumbled before he turned back to the queen. "Vaysey and Guy will do this their way. They've planned this for ages."

"I mean we planned to go to the Holy Land." Luke seemed to be talking mainly to himself now, aimed his eyes to the floor and lowered his voice to a sobbing whisper. "We did plan it. But it won't happen now will it? It was a stupid idea, everyone said so. I just thought you understood."

"I'm sure he understands perfectly well young man," Lady Blanche suddenly chimed in with a motherly smile, compassionate yet daunting. "But you must understand that there are other things at stake here. Now shush, lad!"

"Oh dear," the queen sighed. "I should have known that Johnny would get himself into trouble. It is that sheriff isn't it? Oh John, what have you done!?"

"Your Excellency," Marcel's words snapped out unusually fast. "If this is the case then we must return to England immediately! What use is a king's ransom if there is no kingdom?!"

"Very much use in fact! It is more important than ever to get Richard back to his throne." The queen sucked on her teeth and frowned pensively. "We will go to Germany. We will use charm and what resources we have to get Richard out. We will mobilize the last of the crusaders and what allies we can gather. Word will be sent to your brother, young man," she turned to Luke who had a steak of desperation in his nauseous face, making him pale like the playing wax candles on the church walls. "As for you three, I have no authority over you."

"You have actually," Luke murmured. "We'll hang if you don't get us out of here."

"Why did you say that Luke!?" Allan nearly cursed out loud. They would be indebted to the queen when she released them from this self-chosen prison, and he had rather hoped that she would forget about that detail in all the chaos that ensued. "She doesn't need to hear that, that's our petty problems mind you!"

"Oh," Queen Aliénor exclaimed. "You are right of course young Luke. How silly of me. Then you will follow me to Germany, all three of you. You seem to hold one or two pieces of this puzzle that I lack and I have taken far too few servants on this trip."

"Servants!?" Allan moaned. "And this day seemed so promising before I woke up. Story of my bloody life, that…"

The queen merely smiled, threw out a few orders to fetch the mayor and make new arrangements for the trip, then kneeled down in front of the grieving Madonna statue and said some lazy prayers. She liked the church because it was a quiet place, but now her head was buzzing with plans that kept the Virgin Mary very far away. Germany it was, and then what? A civil war between brother and brother? Aliénor sighed and felt her joints crack and ache as she rose from her hunched position. Seven decades and more and life still shocked her; at least God was a man of many surprises.

--

NEXT: Old friends come to aid a certain heroine. Will she finally be on her way back to England or will she meet with another gruesome destiny?


	21. Chapter 20: Dürnstein

**A/N: Well it has been a month since the last update, so I will give you some info on the current situation in the fic, in case you have forgotten.**

**When we last saw Marian she, Carter and the king was in an ambush in a crevice. Bruder Lukas and Ritter Johann shot an arrow at the king, but the horses were startled and the arrow hit Sir Adam's thigh instead. Sir Adam of Kent is the insider, in that he was feeding information to the German knights. He did it for money and adventure. **

**When the horses were startled the king and Marian raced away and happened to end up right into another trap. They were taken prisoners by the Austrian duke, b/c he considers the king to be responsible for his brother's death in the holy land. The king's entourage consisted of Carter, Sir Adam, and the lords of Adlestone and Barnsbury. The two latter were killed by the duke when they followed their king.**

**Queen Aliénor is on her way to negotiate her son's ransom. She got Allan, Luke and Griet with her. **

**Will and Djaq are still in the HL. I will get to them later. **

**Robin, LJ and Much have been betrayed by the widow Melinda and forced to leave their camp. They are currently living in the forest in the cold winter, without a good base camp. **

**This is my first chapter for a long time. It was difficult to write so be kind. I hope it isn't to boring. Later on there will be a lot of adventure and drama, you have my word on that.**

**Xxx Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 20: Dürnstein**

_-In which the fate of Marian and Carter is explored and the author of this fic has sprained her ankle._

Silence had fallen upon the crevice once the shouts of the ambush faded and the king's entourage had been shattered in chaos. By then the white quilt was torn, dishevelled by hooves and footprints, so that it seemed a melancholic shadow of the scene which had played between the steep walls. Carter crouched down and touched the trail from the panicking horses, squeezing the snow which was too cold to be moulded into any shape. Instead it just rained down in icy flakes, and he brushed the crystals of his sleeve, tilting his head to the sky. It had been few hours since the ambush. The temperature had dropped and the shadows were longer; a ragged, bluish line from the spruces which zigzagged across the snow. Marian and the king had disappeared this way. Their horses must have been dashing ahead, a crazed flight which made their steps indistinct; tossing up the snow as a farmer ploughs the field. Here and there he could distinguish the tracks from the lords of Adlestone and Barnsbury, the two knights from Richard's entourage who had left Carter to care for Sir Adam's wound while they went looking for the king. _We'll come back right away. _Carter shook his head and peered into the distance. It shouldn't have taken them an hour to return, let alone the better part of a day. Something was terribly wrong.

Sir Adam had been lucky when the arrow pierced his thigh and the horse threw him off into the snow. The steel cut deep into the flesh, but the gash was clean and simple. He would get away with a slight limp at worst, and he had been very much at his senses, albeit complaining rather loudly, when Carter left him in order to look for the rest of the retinue. '_You're like lemmings!' _he'd whined_ 'One after one, and then one, all following in some, may I say highly inefficient, procession. Why don't you make a banner while you're at it?"_ Carter had sneered, because Sir Adam was the kind of man who made Carter sneer, that he didn't have any time for banner-making and went anyway, pulsating though the snow in a fast pace until he was too far away to hear Adam's sighs. After that he had been more cautious, listening to every sound and taking precautions not to walk into a trap. The trail continued on and on and the snow creaked beneath his soles, every sound multiplying between the steep walls of the cleft. Finally he came out of it, and the road disappeared into a dense forest. He hesitated for a while, wishing that he had brought a horse with him, but his mare had needed to calm down. He had not expected to have to continue this far. For a while he wondered if he should turn back, take the horses and bring Sir Adam with him, but something worried him. He had a warrior's instinct, and right now it was itching, pulling him further into the forest. He tilted his head again and was startled by the sight of a bird in the distance. It circled over the treetops was joined by two or three more, black shapes against the sky, every now and then dipping down to some unknown treasure. He could hear them croak. His heart thudded once. Crows. Black crows. Crows that scooped out the eyes first, hacking with their sharp beaks to grab the gooey delicacy, or so he had heard. He had once seen a crow feast on the carcass of a deer, pulling a bowel from the abdomen where the ribcage shined pallid over a wine-red grotto. Carter had decided there and then that he disliked birds intensely, and crows in particular were the bringers of bad news. What were they feasting on? A starved fox, a hare ho didn't live through the winter? A human being?

He continued walking mechanically, following the birds now rather than the trails, but they went in the same direction. The sound of the crows made him queasy when he moved in on them, every turn of the road talking him closer. He had the hand on his pommel, his ears and fingers were red from the cold and the air turned into little clouds when he exhaled in sharp puffs. When he finally saw the dark shape of a body in the snow his stomach churned, then turned o steel. He was a warrior and this was a day's work, however grotesque. He let his eyes dart from the shape in the snow to the snow itself. It was dishevelled in between the trees, another ambush no doubt, but there was no life here now except the croaking crows. As he moved in on the body he found it belonging to a horse, stripped of his gear and the eyes lifeless like glass beads. He kneeled down to make sure the animal was truly dead, patted the muscular neck and tried not to inhale the foul atmosphere. There was a sweet smell of death hanging in the air and the carcass was stiff in rigor mortis, or perhaps simply chilled by the snow now that the heart had seized beating. He recognized the animal well. Some hours ago it had carried the lord of Adlestone, and now the dapper pelt was torn by a dozen tiny wounds; deep but narrow like the wounds from crossbow arrows.

"_Réquiem ætérnam dona eis Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat eis Requiéscant in pace,_" Carter murmured over the animal, absently wondering if it was blasphemy to say a prayer over a fallen horse. Yet then again, this may only be a horse, but the scene was sprinkled with traces of blood, spilled so far away from where the animal fell that the rider must have perished as well. "_Amen_." He thus concluded with a cross-sign, knowing in his heart that he had been right. Something had gone terribly wrong.

With his heart sunk into his stomach Carter continued down the road for any sign of Marian and the king, half-hoping that he would find them, half-fearing what he actually might find if he did. Yet there was nothing of more interest than some vague signs of another ambush further ahead. No bodies. No crows. No king. There was nothing but a slumbering winter landscape and the distant croaking of the black birds. Carter kneeled in the snow, breathing heavily for a while, and noticed that it had gotten darker. He would have to go back to Adam, a noticeably grumpier version of the usually so gleeful young knight at that, and tell him the bad news. What would he do then? Head off to Vienna for answers? Leave for England and deliver Robin a fancy gift of absolutely no relevant news at all? He felt woozy as he recalled the promise he had made to Marian, to tell Robin to keep fighting without her. How could he possibly go back to England and tell Robin that he found Marian yet lost her again? That he lost the king? How did you tell a hero that you failed!? He could not possibly do that, not return before he knew the full story of what happened to the king. He felt tired and cold, but fought the impulse of lying down in the soft snow and rose instead. His posture was sagging, like a man walking in defeat, as he turned to wander back to Adam and the horses.

Thus Carter remained a fortnight in Vienna with Sir Adam, who had healed nicely and restored his jovial mood to Carter's great annoyance. The last two members of the party could not possibly be more poorly matched. Carter was troubled and moody by the misfortunes while Adam could have found something funny in a funeral. Something as basic as the initial concern of finding an appropriate tavern had been a nuisance, with Adam rooting for the ill-reputed bordellos and Carter preferring a bed in a quiet monastery in his current mood. Finally they had decided on a nicer sort of tavern which didn't fully please either of them, and for several nights they then sat staring at each other across a cracked table with nothing much to say. This evening there were two jugs of ale in front of them and the buzzing room was filled with smoke from the fireplace; an over-crowded public area smelling of sweat and wet clothes.

"They should clean out the chimney," Carter pointed out and got a blatant, rather amused stare from Sir Adam. The good humoured knight smiled and raised his jug.

"I'll drink to that to that good brother."

"You will drink to anything."

"Ah, that I will. I dare say the challenge is to find something for _you_ to drink for."

"I'm quite happy just drinking because I'm thirsty, if you don't mind."

Sir Adam laughed and shook the raven head in infinite joy over whatever life offered him. "Now, now Carter old chap, if everyone thought like that, no one would be drunk and half the taverns in Europe would be toast, literally. Why, oh why, would you want to do that to the local economy?!" Carter stared at him, then sighed and raised his jug half-heartedly.

"To smoky chimneys then," he grunted and took a deep gulp. "To rowdy taverns. To forced company and above all, to German winter. May we all freeze to death in our beds. Cheers."

Sir Adam laughed again and got a slightly intoxicated smile from a serving wench; the kind of dreamy gaze that women more often than not let linger the handsome knight. "Yes well, that is all good and well," he said. "But why not simply drink to the king? Without whom we two would probably never, ever have met. Never ever. Imagine that, such tragedy." Carter snorted and obliged, moved the jug to his lips and let the bitter beverage fill his mouth. Sir Adam waited until Carter had lifted the jug, then gave into a triumphant smile. "To the king," he repeated. "Who is imprisoned in Dürnstein castle like a bird in a cage."

Carter coughed. The ale was pressed up into his nostrils and a couple of drops trickled down his chin. _Dürnstein! _

"What?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes well I heard it from a fish merchant earlier today—well yesterday actually, so quite a lot earlier if one is to be honest about it. The fool owed me money from a harmless bet so I tapped into the local gossip while I was collecting my trinkets. There is talk about some huge ransom apparently. Anyway, I thought that might be of some interest."

"He is in Dürnstein!? Safe!"

"Well, caged. Well-caged and caged well. But safe."

"And Marian?"

"Ah the fair damsel! Unfortunately her fate is hardly of public interest. Why don't you ride in there and ask them?"

"I will not be such a fool," Carter sneered. "Although I am sure it would please you well to see me hanged."

"_Au the contraire_, as the French have it," Adam winked. "It would ne exceedingly boring here with only Germans."

"Well, we are certainly not staying here, so that will not be a problem." Carter banged the jug in the table and pressed his teeth together, hissing out the words. "Had you only told me this straight away we would already be on our way back to England by now! Who knows how much this lost time has cost us!?"

"Always in such a hurry!" Adam sighed dramatically. "And that is why I didn't tell you. Well, that and the fact that I forgot all about it, actually. Nonetheless, dear friend, now that the secret is out I think we should drink on it, don't you agree? Maid! More beer!"

Carter pressed his lips tighter together and gave Sir Adam a dark look. "You're in a suspiciously good mood for a man who just had his leg pierced with an arrow!" he scoffed.

"Ah, alas! It is all a charade, my dear friend," Adam grinned and tossed his raven black curls back from his eyes. "If I don't balance out your grumpiness I fear we would both perish from boredom! Now where is that maid-- Miss! Hello?! Can I have a honey cake with that beer as well? This table needs sweetening," he smiled. "But really Carter. Where _is_ your sense of fun!? I am sure you cannot have been _born_ like this!"

Carter swallowed the sour remark and turned his attention to the bitter beer. He had a constant feeling of apprehension when he socialized with the knight, and it would not surprise him if Adam took the first opportunity to stab him in the back. Even though there was no proof of any actual crimes committed, his feelings told him not to trust his remaining brother in arms. Surely he had nothing to do with the ambush. _Surely_. Yet then again, there was that shred of doubt. He shook of the irrational uneasiness, attributing it to the fact that he simply didn't like Sir Adam, yet he knew that he would forever keep himself on his guard in his company. He would have to go back to England with a man he despised and distrusted, but it could not be helped. The king was imprisoned and Robin needed to know that the rules of the game had changed. Returning to England was no longer a choice for the king, but one for his enemies to make. Ransom negotiations like these could take years! If ever Prince John tried to seize power it would be now, and even though the troops in Robin's war were nothing but outlaws and tattered peasants they had to be prepared. The battle for England had just taken a critical turn and Carter had to play his part.

--

The stool was a bit wiggly, as if one of the legs was too short, or perhaps it was the floor that wasn't quite levelled. As Marian sat on it she held her back straight and her legs parted, giving herself a level of stability while she secured the tightly braided hair under a piece of coarse linen. The rays from a tiny window, hardly more than a narrow tunnel near the ceiling, painted a now familiar, vaguely heart shaped spot above her bed. It moved with the hours so that it mimicked the sun's walk across the sky, yet it gave very little light to the room, which always seemed dusky and rather stale. The hole kept the air cool, too cold in fact, since the hearth was in the adjoining room; the far more elaborate chamber which served as King Richard's gilded cage. This was the Austrian caste of Dürnstein, clinging to the hillside like a wart, and the walls separating her from the world was meter-thick. For Marian it was a wire trap, a shackle that didn't hurt you if you didn't fight it. Yet it was a prison, and because of that it hurt her all the same.

She trembled a bit in the chilly morning as she pushed open the door that led to King Richard's chambers. It was a spacious and comfortable quarter, a prison fit for a king, with two adjoining rooms of which one was intended as a study and the other a bedchamber. This was the bigger of the two, richly furnished with a robust bedstead as the most prominent feature. The heavy drapes were now tightly shut around the sleeping area and a muffled snoring filled the chamber.

The two windows in the room were situated high up and covered by wooden shutters to keep out the cold. Marian moved a chair to stand beneath the biggest one, lifting the heavy furniture to avoid it scraping against the floor. For a moment she stopped to make sure the king had not been woken by the hollow thud of wood against stone, then she gathered her skirts and climbed up to open the shutter. She heaved herself onto the platform between the window shutter and iron bars, so that her abdomen pressed against the edge and her chest lay flat against the windowsill. The wall was thick and cold and she grabbed the bars with her hands, pushing her forehead to the iron. This was the only way to see the outside of their cells, and Marian had made it into a daily morning routine, however uncomfortable and ridiculous it was. It was often misty between the ragged mountains, and this day was no different. The valley was hidden in veils so that all she could see of the castle was a steep wall, disappearing down below her into the fog. The hills in the horizon were covered in a winter-green pine forest and little spots of snow clinging to the branches and cliffs.

Marian remained like that for a while, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying a view that wasn't cut off by walls or locked doors. The imprisonment would have been bearable, albeit boring, had it not been for the aching feeling of being in a hurry, yet unable to move. Outside the walls life moved on without her, and she was painfully aware of the fact that it wouldn't wait. Time can be chased but never defeated. She watched the fingers that gripped the bars with a sudden feeling of regret, a deep and melancholic echo from the romantic child she had been. Her once so delicate fingers were red and calloused, chapped skin and frayed nails. These were hardly hands to give a lord in marriage; a lady had hands to be admired, white and frail, and these were a working woman's hands. They were tools.

Although this change in her flesh could be mended, there were other transformations which weren't so easily reversed. Somewhere, miles away, her Robin was living the life of a romantic outlaw still, waiting for a king who wasn't coming and grieving over a lost love. What would he think about her if she came back? She had wandered so far, perhaps changed so much that he would find himself disappointed, and her a stranger. It would be cold in the forest, and maybe he had already moved on, grown lonely and impatient and given up the dreams for reality. She feared that time, that impartial villain, would drive him into someone else's arms, simply because having someone to miss makes people all the more lonesome. She knew that because she had been in his place, felt the void that had to be filled or it would devour you. In time he would be lost to her, and if she didn't get this cursed king back even the battle, which had claimed so many sacrifices between them, would have been in vain. Their England would be lost. _England. _Once she had used England to fill her own void, grand ideas disguised in a mask and cloak, tears into bread for the poor and sorrow into moulded into anger. Somehow that substitute for lost love had grown bigger with every breath, maybe even bigger than love itself, until it landed her a prisoner in this Austrian castle. Perhaps love was the prize for the life she had chosen, the fee as she lent her soul to this war. The metal bars were cold against her skin and she peered down into the mist where a church tower was emanating like a ghost, the bell ringing to first mass and waking the last of the slumbering villagers. A pounding headache started to knock against her forehead and she wondered, as she did every morning, if these battles had been worth her life. Once again she found that the answer eluded her.

There was a rustling of keys from the door and Marian let go of the bars, her soft-soled shoes landing on the floor with a low thud as she did so. A maid moved into the room carrying a bucket of water and Marian greeted her with a smile.

"Good morning Maria," the maid chirped in French, using the name that Marian had found more appropriate in her current incarnation. It had seemed a wise decision to be a servant rather than a noblewoman here, thus avoiding the questions that would otherwise follow. "Is his highness still in bed?" the maid continued.

"Morning Erika," Marian said. "And he is, at that."

"Oh well better hush then, wouldn't want to wake the sleeping lion in his den."

Marian raised her eyebrow and gave Erika a smile in agreement. The young woman was a farmer's daughter, big-boned with silky raven hair and bulging eyes, but although she looked almost matron-like she had a gentle voice and a very girlish kind of laughter. She was born in this Austrian village by a French mother, and the dark colours of the Mediterranean, as well as her singing French, told of her origin. Marian preferred speaking in French, even the odd southern accent which Erika was fluent in, although her own German had improved considerably since she'd come here nearly a month ago. It now resembled the rough accent of the castle staff more than the polished way of speaking that she had been brought up with. In spite of the years of ennoblement, being worked like a piece of wood to perfect her stance and education, she had lately slipped into the proud but rather unpolished ways of a working woman. It happened slowly but without any effort, mimicking the servants which she spent the bulk of her time with. She had a sneaking suspicion that it would prove more challenging to relearn the delicacy of good bearing that it had been to forget all about it. Once life had been torn apart, many things that once seemed essential, for a decent life if not for living itself, appeared ludicrous in comparison. She didn't care what people thought about her; she just wanted to go home.

Over at a narrow table Erika started to prepare for the king's daily grooming, humming as she sharpened the bronze razor intended for the shaving and lined up the tweezers and combs. Marian joined her and felt the water with her fingertips before she poured it into a ceramic bowl shaped like a clam.

"Have you heard," Erika said in a low voice, confident that the king, like any noble, would sleep though servants' chatter as one sleeps through the sound of the wind against a window shutter. "There's news circulating," she continued. "It's all over the kitchen, see, been since supper, and now word's crawling through the castle, from mouth to mouth so to speak. By lunch everyone will know, and I do think they all intended it to be a secret."

"What is it about?" Marian asked. She was used by now to Erika's complicated way of speaking and knew that she needed to be spurred on to ever reach the point. The girl was a chatty sort of person, but gossip was slow coming from her since it had to trail through a maze of other thoughts, constantly distracting her from the subject.

"A few things actually," Erika responded. "They held some sort of meeting and a servant lass overheard it all. Although I think it was Emma, and she's a bit dim-witted that one, I am sure of it-- I wouldn't say so out loud, well not to anyone in town mind-- but I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that her mum dropped her on the head when she was a toddler. Still, I guess she got ears like anyone."

"What did they say?"

"Well, they say Queen Aliénor is on the warpath for one. Apparently that made the duke rather scared, or so Emma swears, he went all pale and shaky, she says. They all have fun over that, but I dunno… I would be just like her to exaggerate over stuff like that, she got such rowdy sense of humour. You know I really don't know what all them stable lads go all goggly about when she sways those scrawny hips of hers! She doesn't give a toss about them anyways-- her smiles can be bought by the hour and they haven't got the coin."

"On the warpath?" Marian interrupted Erika before she started to rant about the castle salaries.

"Oh, yes, and coming here. All these people are coming here, see, the house will be full-- The emperor even, they say, oh and count Friedrich! Oh, I do like him, a decent sort of man. Don't know why he is coming here now though, it is not even close to hunting season. Although I guess it would be possible to put out some traps--"

Marian felt herself freeze in the middle of a movement, her mouth falling open as her heart started flapping like a trapped butterfly.

"What?" she gasped.

"Well we only have Emma's word for it mind. The big news is the emperor of course, don't think she would lie about that really. He has been here before, but it always gets the castle in such a hustle. They will have us wash every piece of linen, I'm sure of it, even though it is too cold to have them hanging outside. Oh and woe! Then the cook will be in one of her moods! Her kitchen filled with washing lines and damp cloth, when she will have to prepare some elaborate feast and be all busy and test every recipe-- and then some fancy tablecloth is bound to fall into her stew, ruining both of them," Erika went silent for a while and looked troubled. "I hope she doesn't push anyone into the fireplace this time, that poor lad will never look the same. All that hot soup all over him--"

Marian gripped the clam-shaped bowl with her hands leaned her weight on the table, listening to Erika's ramblings with half an ear while she forced herself to take steady breaths.

"Oh dear," Erika suddenly exclaimed. "I talk to much, don't I!? Are you well, liebe? You look very pale. You do not have a fever do you? These rooms get so damp with the mist, I wish you could have a room with a hearth at least."

"Oh, no it's nothing. I'm just wondering-- this Count Friedrich, who exactly is that?"

"Oh I'm sorry. Count Friedrich of Bavaria. He is _very _rich that one."

Marian gave out a snorting laughter, desperately trying to get a grip on herself while her throbbing heart left her breathless. "Fancy being introduced like that," she stammered. "_'This is Friedrich, he is rich'._"

"Not likely to ever happen to us," Erika smiled.

"Uh, no I suppose not," Marian fell silent and let herself collapse down into a chair. Her legs were trembling, weak by the shock, and she wondered whether it was time to tell Erika that her birth-name was if fact Marian, not a peasant-sounding Maria. "I suppose not." She repeated. The maid looked at her, her motherly eyes filled with concern, but didn't press her on the subject. Instead the king's snoring grew stronger and the bed creaked as he rolled over on his back behind the curtains, his grunting filling the silence. Still trembling, Marian moved over to the hearth and started knocking a piece of flint against the fire-iron to spark fire to the peat. She sat crouched for a while and twisted her shivering hands over the flames, felt the fingers sting as she rubbed them warm.

"It is very cold here," she finally said in a flat, conversational voice. "Is this normal for this time a year?"

"Quite so," Erika responded, glad for an opportunity to break the sudden tension. "It snowed a bit tonight you know, I wish you could see it. The valley was so pretty this morning, but there was ice on the well and I had to get one of the farmhands to knock it open. I like how it cracks, like a nice crust on one of the cook's desserts. So I said to Hans, that's his name—Anyway, I said that '_isn't this romantic'_, for a joke like, and then his ears went all red and he grunted something about sheep and his wife." Erika giggled happily, and Marian felt herself smile, a mere twitch in her lips at first, but once she started it was impossible to stop. _Count Friedrich of Bavaria._ That was the name Erika had mentioned. Her dear friend Count Friedrich! It was actually him, and he was actually coming here! With him came the hope of a way out for her, and with the queen mother perhaps a chance for the king to escape as well. They would get out of here, be safe—unless of course Ritter Johann and Bruder Lukas were waiting--

"No!" Marian gasped out loud as she remembered her unpleasant travel company, and the fact that they were still out there.

"What happened, did you burn yourself?"

"No," Marian snapped, then continued a bit softer. "No, I didn't, I really didn't. I just remembered that there are other things than fire that can—can hurt you. I had forgotten all about them-- I'm sorry, there are just so many things Erika, so much you don't know—I wouldn't know where to start."

"Never mind that," Erika sat down on the chair and pulled it up to the hearth so that she could rest her hand on Marian's shoulder. She had the exited expression of a person awaiting a piece of truly brilliant gossip, something to brighten up her dull life, but was tactful enough to subdue it. "Me understanding is not important is it?" she continued softly. "You just need to talk about it."

Some tense moments passed, filled with the regal snoring coming from the bed and the wind's whingeing outside the windows. The fire licked the dry wood, thirstily rummaging after the last of the peat that was wedged between the logs. Slowly the heated air spread, the fire crackling and spitting embers, and Marian breathed in the smoky atmosphere. It smelled just like home. Then she turned towards the maid, hesitated for a while, and then in the waking morning hour she told her everything.

Erika's mouth fell open, formed into silent 'oh's and 'ah's and the occasional gasp as the story unfolded. Marian told her of the state of England, of Guy and Robin and the sheriff, of the merry men from the forest, of her father; then of the shipwreck in the Mediterranean sea, of the friendly Turkish village, of Balthazar the Merchant, of the German knights and finally the ambush which had landed her here. The tale must have taken the better part of an hour - even though she spoke fast and without breaks - and at the end her mouth felt parched and her voice sounded hoarse. It felt odd to see her life like this, forced into a few measly words as if she was talking about someone else. Extraordinary tales of far-away lands, bandits and knights, strange foreigners, storms and hardships, even true love, lost yet vainly pursued year after year.

"Blimey!" Erika sighed when the story was over and the words returned to her. "It's better than one of them ballads this! I am sure there must have been a witch at some point, an old hag enchanting you," she smiled at the joke, but a certain strain around the lips revealed that she didn't consider the concept of a witch all that farfetched.

"Perhaps a lucky enchantment then, because I should be dead a hundred times over."

"Perhaps—But oh if that ship had just reached the Holy Land!"

"Yes, one can always say 'if'," Marian sighed and smiled absently. "_If _I reached the Holy Land and saved the king-- But I didn't. I am sure God has his reasons for sending me down this path. I mean, who knows what fate would have had in store for me had I reached my destination?"

"Oh I don't know, men are so poorly organized," Erika joked and turned t the bed where the king was slowly waking up at last. "Talking of men, he sleeps half the day that one! However did he have time to fight a war and rule a country I will never know--"

"No," Marian agreed and rose on legs that were stiff and tingly. She shrugged off the memories as if they were a cloak that could be shed, and forced herself back into reality and the never-ending servant's chores. "That is indeed a mystery."

--

In a house in Dürnstein village two German knights sat silently. Bruder Lukas had not eaten much since the failed ambush and his eyes appeared even more hollowed-out, a shadow of death constantly hanging over his gloomy figure. He folded his hands in his lap and stared at Ritter Johann, who was guzzling down another bowl of thick stew as if he hadn't eaten for days.

"You are disgusting," the bruder said in a flat voice, and Johann gave him a wounded look. "You stuff yourself like a pig to the slaughterhouse."

"Well," Ritter Johann responded with his mouth full of chewy meat. "I don't think God intended for his lambs to starve. What kind of shepherd would he be then, huh?"

"The priest is the shepherd," Bruder Lukas scoffed reproachfully. "Just remember that God has no mercy for those who ignore the capital sins."

Ritter Johann shrugged and the bruder shut his eyes when Johann dipped a piece of bread in the stew, shuffling it into his mouth with a disgusting sucking noise. Without sight every sound becomes more distinguished, and Lukas heard Johann slobber and grunt his way though the meal. He felt sick. His own body was bony to the extreme beneath the clothes, the skin a sickly pale colour with bruises from sitting in the same position for hours. He redirected his attention away from Ritter Johann and overheard a drunken discussion on the next table _"…looks worse than Jesus on that cross, she said, and I'm sure he is at least as pious, I said, and she said she wasn't so sure. Apparently he wears his cross upside down see? But I don't know. Probably just how they do it up north if you ask me, they're a bit odd there..." _ Bruder Lukas twitched and his face became twisted in disgust over the gossip that he knew must be about him. He did certainly not hold his cross upside down! Such blasphemy! Repulsed he changed his attention to the table on his left instead, and found that they were discussing meat prices in the winter versus the summer. Irrelevant peasant talk. He continued to shift attention from table to table until he had made sure that no one was talking about whatever went on in the castle, where everyone knew by now that King Richard sat imprisoned. He opened his eyelids again and the smoke stung his eyes, making them tear helplessly. Johann had ordered in another beer and belched happily at him.

"Very fine beer here," he noted. "Very fine indeed."

Buder Lukas did not dignify the comment with an answer. Instead he rose from the chair and gave the knight a glance so filled with disdain that it made the man recoil.

"I will retire," the bruder announced and blinked away the irritated tears. "Do not disturb me."

Ritter Johann nodded. "Very well," he responded. "My little castle lady is coming down later anyway, and I got a feeling she will be in a chatty mood."

"Ask her about the king then."

Lukas turned to show that the conversation was over, walking away with his back slightly hunched as if he didn't have the strength to keep his undernourished body straight. He didn't usually approve of Ritter Johann's fondness for the ladies, but this particular girl had proved useful. Before he disappeared out from the public room he turned to see that she had joined him already. No doubt she had been waiting for Lukas to disappear, that little wench. Her hair was bright and contrasted to Johann's dark colours when she slid her little body down into his lap, tossing her neck back into one of her obnoxiously loud laughers. Her name was Emma, Johann said; a servant wench at the castle who currently pressed her gossiping lips to the knight's cheek in greeting. Her stance seemed to communicate that she had some exciting news, and it lifted Bruder Lukas' mood slightly. He clenched his hand around the rosary and turned his back on the sickening tavern-scenes, slowly walking up the stairs for another night full of patient prayers. Tonight he would pray to God that his prey would not stay in its lair much longer. He was a hunter and he ached to go in for the kill.

* * *

**NEXT: The final battle for England draws nearer. Will Will and Djaq return? Will the queen get her son out from imprisonment? Will Robin finally hear that Marian isn't quite as dead as he thinks? Will Obama be president? Nah, just kidding, I don't actually know that last thing. Nonetheless, the other questions will answered, as this fic draws slowly towards its climax.**


	22. Chapter 21: The bowmaker

**Hello dear readers :) Here comes the long awaited Will/Djaq chapter. It was immensely difficult for me to write, so comments are much appreciated. Everything is starting to come together in this story from now on, at last. :s:**

**I have a brand new Allan/Djaq short story up if any1 is interested as well, set during ep213. It is Allan/Djaq/Will, really, but Will sins't actually in it much more than as a background figure.**

**Chanel: Thank you. Glad that people still read :)  
Paperbackwriter: lo, I love you completely too. Thank you. :D  
Mizco: Well, all I can say is that the next time we meet Robin (ch 23 or 24), he is going to meet up with Carter ;)  
Gatewatcher: I have written part of the reunion scene, so it is drawing closer. ;)  
Ana Sedai: Thank you, my real life issues is working out very well actually. Better than in several years, and now my muse is returning, so this might not even be my last fic ever, as I planned. **

**Thanx for the comments!  
xxx Trix**

* * *

**Chapter 21: The bow-maker**

_-In which we find ourselves in the company of too many pigeons._

Ibrahim al-Khallal, master bow-maker and an old friend of Djaq's uncle, had the sinewy arms of an aging craftsman, weatherworn but with a well-grounded strength in his lanky body. The bow currently resting in his hand was a short one intended for hunting, ornamented in an intricate gold pattern on black ground, and it seemed almost incomprehensible that his gnarled fingers could have crafted such a delicate object. By his feet Will Scarlet sat cross-legged, a look of awe on his face, listening to the man's words with flattering intensity. He was dressed in wide pants and a knee-long tunic and his brown hair was neatly cropped in an Islamic fashion. With his naturally dark colours and tanned skin he almost managed to pass for Saracen as long as no words betrayed him, yet it was only an illusion, paper-thin and fragile. He frowned when Ibrahim temporarily switched over to Arabic, his mouth instantly pressed into a hard line. Ibrahim caught his reaction and the craftsman's eyes sought Djaq's across the room.

"Is his Arabic still so poor?" he asked her rapidly. The accent, which he used only when he didn't intend the words to reach Will's untrained ears, was garbled and rough, and Djaq nodded in response.

"Yes. His talent does not lie in books and learning."

"Then where do his talents lay?"

Djaq flinched at the open critique in the elder man's words, biting back her sour response by willpower alone. This world was one of men, intimidating and patronizing father-figures, and their respect wasn't won over by futile augments. She let her eyes flicker nervously over to Will who had grabbed the bow and was twisting it in his hands, focusing on the beautiful hunting weapon. He had let his attention sink into the craftsmanship, but his jaw was tense in discomfort. She knew that he hated it when they talked over his head, wished to understand but didn't dare even trying for fear of hearing too much truth.

"He would make an excellent bow-maker," Djaq responded, shortly after serving her lover a fond smile in hope that he wouldn't be too troubled by their conversation.

"He is too old to be a bow-maker," Ibrahim snapped, stating a fact which sounded like a rebuke. Djaq met his stern look calmly, venturing into a silent war of wills, until he broke the stare with a sigh. "I am sorry Safiya. I like the boy, it is your future which concerns me. I do not doubt his passion, nor his talent, but this is not some crude English carpentry. How can a man expect to master the finer arts when he fails to decipher even the simplest written word? I know his intentions are amiable, but he should have started training years ago if he wished to be my apprentice."

Djaq's stomach churned when Ibrahim so easily voiced Will's secret hopes, the ones he hadn't dared to say out loud, yet were written in his every muscle, just to shatter them. Will's admiration of the bow-maker bordered on idolization, and apparently this enthusiasm had not passed the stern man by. Her eyes twitched over to Will anew, feeling her heart sink when she noticed his state of tranquillity. The wood, the bow and its craftsmanship, these were things Will knew, not only in his mind but in his entire body. The familiarity soothed him in a way that made him appealing, in tune with the world rather than cut into it like the patch on a poorly mended dress. Like an animal made for water he was clumsy on shore yet graceful in his right element. It broke her heart to stand faced with the vanity of his dreams.

"He is good with wood," she defended her love half-heartedly, knowing that the objection was a matter of form rather than any true conviction. Ibrahim was right, even though she hated to admit it.

"And this is why I have recommended him to friends, Safiya. But not for bow-making. Simple carpentry, in that he can excel even here."

Djaq sighed, reluctantly giving Ibrahim a faint nod in agreement. "You have been very good to us. But that is not what he wishes," she murmured. "A man should not be forced to give up his dreams when they have kept him warm for years of hardships."

"Dreams keep no one warm, Safiya," Ibrahim snapped gravely. "You if anyone should know that. It was dreams which got your brother killed." He let his eyes linger on Djaq's face, and she cursed the tears which threatened to crack her façade. "You took his name, so you must still carry the grief of his mistakes. Djaq was killed in their war because he saw the things in his head clearer than the things right in front of him. Do you not see how much alike they are?"

The memory of her brother almost made Djaq choke, her chest constricted by grief belonging to a time when Djaq was still alive. They had all cursed him, wept and raged over his decision to go to war, until all that was left was a mother's appeal for her son not to abandon them, and a sister's silent accusation. Yet he had left for the war anyway, leaving them with a final, sundrenched memory of a young boy chasing rainbows. Safiya had been standing with her arms crossed, mouth pressed into a hard line, and stared into the white horizon long after Djaq had become a rippled shade by the heat waves, then disappeared completely. He had the most honest smile she had ever seen, and Safiya may only have been 15, but it had been evident to her that men like that did not belong in the hard world of warfare.

In England Will's resemblance to her brother had been a positive one, since negative memories are blurred with time. Now that she found herself back here, however, all the wounds were reopened; the frustration and despair bubbling up to the surface like swamp gas. Will wanted a staircase to the stars but couldn't seem to be bothered with the first steps. Instead he simply stood gazing at his far-away goals, his passionate soul longing for the universe which lay so decidedly out of reach. He needed to learn Arabic well, learn the religion and customs, and he needed to enjoy the small victories on the way. The neighbours had employed his services when it came to simpler carpeting jobs, accepting the silent Englishman without passing over the line into friendliness. Djaq knew that they considered him much like the boy Muhammed down the street – a kind-natured lad who had been strangled by his own cord at birth and never fully developed his senses. People got used to the dumb smile in the face of this constant child, and they got used to Will's blank silence in much the same way.

"Do you wish me to speak with him?" Ibrahim continued when Djaq remained silent. "I have no problem reciting the truth to his face. Even if he had the right age, knew the language, I could never consider him. You have always been your father's daughter, shrewd and practical as he was, so I have no doubt that you know of what I speak. Our worlds are at war, and bow-making is a craft of war. Who here will take on a Christian for such a profession? Hmm? He will not see things for what they are, so you must."

"It would anger people," Djaq agreed, sick of the conversation and only wishing to put it to an end, even if it meant being submissive and humouring him. "I am aware of that and I will speak with him. Do not let it bother you."

"I was a friend of your father. Everything which concerns your future concerns me. Do you think I have forgotten the little wide-eyed girl, who sat perched up on my workbench while I carved the wood? Always so many questions, so much curiosity. You should never marry a man who is weaker that you, Safiya."

"He is not weaker!"

The silence fell like a wet blanket over the room. Will's eyes had darted up from the admiration of the bow and were staring at Djaq, wounded and shocked, and Ibrahim curled his lips to a bitter smile. "Have you been so long in this man's company that you switch to his tongue without noticing?" he murmured in Arabic, and Djaq's ears started burning with shame. She had not meant to blurt out those words in English, yet she had.

"What are you talking about?" Will asked cautiously. "Am I weak?"

"He thinks you are too scrawny, that is all. A starving wolf would walk right by you, my love."

"You should not lie to him, Safiya. It displeases Allah," Ibrahim chastised Djaq for the joke. The smile which had started to bloom in Will's face died away instantly, and Djaq cursed Ibrahim for being so frank at all times. The was no room for games in this man's world, yet Djaq knew that a shared lie sometimes could be better than the truth. They could not carry the truth so they postponed it time and again, lived through another day, hour by hour. Instead of getting better Djaq had come to think of her grand new life as a slowly sloping decline. Djaq was essentially a learned woman who revered knowledge, and Will was a man who had set up his world in a certain way, excelling at his passions but fearing change. It was a coin with two sides. He was who he was and never let his values be compromised, but neither was he willing to adjust them to the situation. He didn't handle this foreign country well.

"Please," Djaq said to Ibrahim in Arabic. "This is a domestic matter. You should not interfere."

"You will not hurt the boy less by lying to him."

"I know. I will discuss it with him later." Djaq's heart started thudding faster as she looked over at Will, his eyes once again aimed at the bow and his shoulders slumped in dejection. They had to confront the problems soon, and they both knew it. They lived in a fragile peace, upheld simply by avoiding the problems rather than solving them, and as a result neither of them was happy.

The cooing of the birds was like a wall of sound in the spacious room where they spent this afternoon. Djaq turned her back on Ibrahim and Will, walked over to her pigeons with heavy steps when they continued discussing the bow, and started scraping the spilling from an empty cage. It belonged to a bird called Rana, important enough to have a name and currently hovering over the Mediterranean sea, on the way back here where it belonged. If humans were as good as pigeons at finding the way home, life would be much easier indeed. Instead one wandered here and there until there was no such thing as a home, just shadows of places you remembered. Now that Djaq was back here, once again the young woman Safiya in the land of sand and dry, scorching air, it seemed the home she returned to had been a mirage. This place may be the same but she was not. The question was thus not weather this was truly her home, but weather she could make it her home. She needed Will for that, the graceful, happy Will who was steady and calm, yet passionate at heart. You could not build your life on a fondness for pigeons alone.

The day had started to cool off when Ibrahim left the young couple alone with the birds. The evenings were usually a good part of the day, one used for indulging in each other's company and the memories of their far-away friends. It was easy then to remember why she loved Will, to see that they had common ground beneath all their differences. Yet this evening was not like that. The silence was tense, almost accusing, and when they finally sat down for a light supper, Will folded his hands in a prayer.

"My love?" Djaq asked cautiously, watching his lips as they blurted out a couple of Latin phrases over the cup of steaming tea. The question of religion was another one which they avoided. It seemed assumed that Will would convert, but Djaq knew that the notion of giving up his God was one that distressed him greatly. Still, she had not seen him openly pray to his God since he came here, and the sudden change puzzled her.

Instead of responding, Will met her eyes calmly and started to serve the food, silver spoons angrily scraping against the lead plates and wooden bowls.

"What will you have me do, Djaq?" he suddenly broke the silence. "Mend tables for people that treat me no better than a dog? I am no one here, less than a peasant, less than a person."

Djaq sat stunned with a piece of bread lifted halfway to her mouth, freezing in her movements. "No," she stammered. "No, more than that. More for me." Djaq bit down on her lip as the untold question hung in the air between them, making the already stifling air even heavier to breath. '_Is that enough?'_ was another question they avoided, too scared for the answer. Could Will really be happy only being her man and nothing else? He had been brought here a carpenter and the pride he felt for his craftsmanship as such was a big part of his self-image. Taking it away made him feel small, simply because he thought so little of himself without it. "I mean," Djaq continued hesitantly, "In time things will be better for us. Someone has to mend tables Will. A dog could not do it in spite of how well they treat it."

"I'm sure an Arabic dog could," Will smiled, although rather bitterly. 'Englishman' was a word that was spoken here in much the same tone as 'leper' or 'Jew' back home, and it had grown to be a burden. It was apparent that people here considered it to be a fact that anything an Englishman could do, a Saracen could do better. Nothing unites people quite like aversion, and nothing makes a person averse quite like people uniting against him. No matter how much he admired the Saracen craftsmanship he was beginning to think that the Saracens themselves had that crusade coming. In his eyes they were smug and petty, with the odd exception. Obviously Englishmen were no better back home, but there he had been on the right side. He was a minority here, and the restrictions it put on the life that he led made him frustrated and bitter. It was a scary thought to know that he wasn't happy, and one that he tried to avoid because it also meant that he wasn't happy with Djaq. It made no sense. He hated her pigeons, and the heat, and the condescending looks from the neighbours, but he loved her. He should be happy simply being with the one he loved, that was the rickety foundation on which they had built their castles in the air. It seemed now that the choices they made in staying here might have been flawed.

"It will get better," Djaq insisted, but with a tone which betrayed her. She did not truly believe it herself.

"Even though I am weak?"

"You are not weak! You are the strongest, most passionate…"

"Don't do this," Will interrupted her, shoving a couple of spoonfuls of food into his mouth. Djaq waited for him to swallow, her forehead creased and her fingers slowly stripping the bread in her hand into smaller pieces. When Will was done he sighed, shoving away the half-finished plate so that it hit the cup with a clang. "The spices burn my tongue," he grunted.

"I will ask my aunt to make it milder."

"It doesn't help. Everything here is too strong."

Djaq felt herself tense and her edginess spread to him - a prolonged sigh that wandered like a wind from tree to tree. Was this it? Was this the time when he would say the inevitable, finally give up and leave for England? What would she do then? Did he even wish for her to follow? The terror of loosing him built up like ice in her stomach, a sudden chill which made her bones gripe in agony.

"I'm sorry," Will sighed as he caught the Djaq's wide-eyes stare, like a rabbit trapped in its lair. "I am just tired today I guess. The food is good, it really is. At least we have food, and we don't starve."

"It is too warm too eat anyway," Djaq smiled as relief surged through her body, pushing away her own plate with a nonchalant jerk of her wrist. "More tea?"

"Water perhaps."

The conversation ventured into more harmless waters as the evening went on, practical matters and town gossip which Djaq felt that Will should know. It was better that he had some recollection on what was going on in the neighbourhood, rather than being completely isolated, even though he hardly recognized most of the names. He smiled and nodded until Djaq ran out of news and they were left with the troubling silence anew, wondering which subjects were harmless and neutral.

"It takes years to make a bow like that, you know," Will finally smiled, and Djaq instantly felt herself grow wary. "A Saracen recurved one, I mean. Like the ones al-Khallal makes. It is quite fascinating."

"I am sure it is," Djaq responded cautiously, wondering where this conversation was going.

"An English longbow is simple enough. This is different." There was a pause and Will's eyes got clouded by sadness, causing another tug of fear ripple through Djaq. "I think they remind be of Robin," he murmured. "I thought perhaps I could find a way to adapt this bow-making to the northern climate, make the bows less sensitive you know?"

"I do know, but you must understand…"

"I do," Will interrupted her. "Don't worry. I'm not stupid. It was just a dream."

_Just a dream. _Yet 'just a dream' was what had made them stay here in the first place, wasn't it? A dream of a life of their own, a happy future. They had not expected it to mean the opposite - that dreams could die in the desert. The feeling of being trapped came over Djaq, an almost suffocating despair which would keep her awake through most of the night. There had been so many nights like that, tossing and turning in her bed to try and find a way out, but since the problems were so vague and all-encompassing the solution eluded her. With a sigh she put the dish on the silver tray, looking around for the housekeeper Sawda, who should be close by. The woman was a gossipy sort of person, always lounging in the periphery and hoping to catch a word here and there, even if it was spoken in foreign tongue which she had little chance of understanding.

"It is getting late, we should call it a night," Djaq smiled at Will. "Now, where is Sawda?" She called out in Arabic, but instead of a dark head instantly appearing from the closest doorway, the housekeeper remained absent. "Sawda? Where is she?"

"Perhaps she is busy. I can take the tray to the kitchen."

"No, I'll take it. It is not a man's chore."

Will nodded and watched as Djaq lifted the heavy tray. She was moving towards the kitchen when Sawda suddenly appeared, a flustered expression in her round face and her dark hands twisting edgily. The two women exchanged a couple of phrases, Sawda giddy with excitement and Djaq's face increasingly puzzled.

"What is it?" Will called out.

"It seems we have a visitor, my love," Djaq responded, handing over the tray to Sawda, who turned on her heel and hurried away down the dark corridor.

"A visitor?"

"She swears it is a foreigner, an Englishman."

"An Englishman?! Why…"

"I do not know. Puff up the pillows, Sawda will bring tea," Djaq ordered as she arranged a piece of silk cloth around her head, tucking in the boyish curls. Will hesitated, wishing to ask her more even though she had no answers, before he decided to oblige her and brushed some crumbs from the table to make the room look presentable. When the visitor entered, the couple stood in the middle of the room, welcoming smiles arranged to cover up their bewilderment. The man who stepped in was dusty from travelling, the white cloth in his tunic had yellow stains from dried-in sweat under the armpits, and his red beard was bushy. Two tiny, blue eyes peered out between wisps of unkempt hair, and he made a small bow which seemed rushed and crude.

"Hello," Will said, glancing at Djaq. "Welcome. Who..?"

"Who do we have the pleasure of offering our hospitality?" Djaq filled in. The blue eyes landed on her, watching her intensely for a couple of moments.

"An Saracen lass and an English boy, ay, seems 'bout right," the visitor rumbled in a Northern English which was hard on the r's. "Got news for ye."

He unceremoniously handed over a piece of rolled-up parchment to Will, who discreetly snuck it over to Djaq. He looked over her shoulder as she unfolded it in a hurry, her lips moving while she read through it in silence, voicing the words under her breath. Even though Will was completely illiterate in his own tongue, he noted that the handwriting was elaborate as the writing of a professional scribe. When Djaq was half-way through, she gave out a sharp gasp of surprise.

"What?" Will wondered. "Is it bad news?"

"Well it is—news alright. King Richard has been captured."

"What?! By the sheriff?"

"No, no not by the sheriff. Some Austrian duke it says here. The Queen mother is on her way to Germany to negotiate the ransom."

"In Austria? But-- how does Robin know all this?"

"Oh," Djaq smiled, looking up at Will. "Oh no, the letter is not from Robin. It is from her—it is from Queen Aliénor. It seems that she somehow finds herself in company of Allan and Luke. It is very confusing, but the message is quite clear."

"She wants us to go back to England?" Will's heart started to thud, his mind initially leaping right past the mention of Allan and Luke. "Wait, did you say Luke? Like my Lukey? And _Allan_? They should be in England!" It made him feel vaguely uncomfortable to hear that his little brother was spending time abroad, in the company of Allan-A-Dale none the less. Yet, if the Queen mother was there it couldn't be too bad, could it?

"No they were in France." Djaq mumbled. "It is very confusing, but the queen urges us to gather up the rest of the troops down here and travel to Nottingham."

"But we have no authority over Crusaders!"

"I have," the visitor grunted and stepped forward. "Sir Alastair's me name. Wouldn't believe me to be a noble, but that's the truth. We're a hard breed up north, not soft-handed like them London puffs. I have slain more Saracens than Robin of Locksley, if ye don't mind me saying so ma'am."

Djaq's mouth curled into a polite smile, before she turned back to Will. "What do you say?" she asked him cautiously. "What shall we do?"

"I don't know. It's a long way home isn't it? A long way to England I mean?" Yet the glimmer in Will's eyes was unmistakable. Djaq had not seen him this hopeful for months, and it only took her a moment to realize that her own feelings mimicked those she could read in his face.

"You still have your tag?" Her mouth was drawn into a tense smile as she spoke the words. Will nodded and tapped his chest where the wooden tag lay hidden behind layers of cloth, his brown eyes sparkling with joy even though his face remained grave.

"Well then," Djaq cocked her eyebrow and grabbed her lover's hand. "We are still Robin's men. We leave for England." A short pause as she rose to her toes and planted a soft kiss on Will's cheek, lowering her voice into a whisper against his ear. "My love, we are going home."

* * *

**NEXT: All roads lead to Dürnstein. Almost.**


	23. Chapter 22: Deal the Cards

**Mizco and Gatewatcher: Personally I think staying behind in the HL was stupid idea in the first place lol, but it did made Will/Djaq at least remotely interesting for me to write ;) I thrive on angst.  
Ese: I see that you have noticed that I allow anonymous comments n this fic now. You can trust my muse to keep on going to the end. ;)  
Daze: Hey :) I think you are right, my enthusiasm for this fic is back.  
Ana: Yes well, in the beginning I updated at least once a week. It had slowed down considerably lately but I aim on having it done by the summer. Lol, about the dark Robin/Marian/Guy fic it is in fact darker than my usual stuff. I have quite a lot of ideas for it. It is a bout the darker sides of love, like obsession and the fact that sacrifices made out of love can in fact hinder love. It is a bit vague now but I'm pretty sure that I am going through with it.  
Dina: I love that you use that lovely tapestry metaphor to describe this fic! I think that is rather how I view it. However intricate my stories may be I always try to tie everything together in the end. I always have the big picture in my mind when I work on the details.  
Chanel (and everyone else): Well, here comes the update ;)**

**I have had a terrible day at work (I currently work at a hospital, and it is hard when people my age are really, really ill. The mental impact is really quite heavy), so please give me lots of nice comments. They are all very much appreciated - cheer me up and give me confidence in my story. **

**Thanx for Rieke who helped withe the one line in German. Apart from that this chapter isn't betad.**

**  
NOTE: King Richard's song is an actual song written by King Richard during his imprisonment.**

**NOTE 2: I want this fic to have over 200 comments when I am done. I need you all to help me reach that goal ;) Together we prevail!**

**xxxTrixxx**

* * *

**Chapter 22: Deal the cards**

_-In which a certain German count talks too much, making the chapter way too long, and a poor rat meets a gruesome destiny. _

"Five."

In the dusk of the closed carriage an eyebrow was lifted sarcastically, lips curled into a smile, fingers drummed against the wood in the cushioned seats. Two faces were tense with the excitement of the gamble, bouncing the challenge back and forth like a game of tennis. The carriage jolted on the poor roads and the big wheels rattled like chattering women by the well.

"Five? Ah, that is a – a fair guess. A safe bet. But no-- no I will be bold I think. Since this is not my lucky day, it must be at least twelve."

"That is not bold as much as it is foolish. Will you put five shilling on that?"

"Five is a sad number, always one too many. No, let us make this trip exciting. Make it ten, Otto."

"Ten shilling it is then. If this road has eight turns or less before we reach Dürnstein, the ale is on me this evening. My pouch will hang so heavy that I shall walk crooked like an old crone."

"I don't think you should let this conundrum trouble you to any great extent. I intend on winning, so it will be my back, and I do not bend like cheap playing cards. But in any case the ale will have to be on our dear friend Leopold."

"Ah, the most honourable Austrian duke."

"A grand man indeed, although it could be disputed that his grandeur is in size rather than mind. He is, and remember that I warned you, a ghastly man in every respect, except perhaps that I would not call him a man at all."

"And yet you see him ever so often. One."

"Not of late, I think you will find. Besides, I am a hunter and a gambler. He got excellent game, too much money and no wits. We make a good couple.Two."_._The carriage turned and turned again. An elbow hit the wall with a thud. "_Scheiße__!_ See! The mere mentioning of this oversized half-man brings me bad luck!"

"Bad luck indeed. That was the same turn, we are still on one."

"You play unfair my cousin, but very well."

Count Friedrich of Bavaria pulled his face into a scowl of discomfort and pressed his forehead to the carriage's wall, trying to get a decent look of the road which lay before them. It looked alarmingly straight, and his hand moved almost by reflex to the heavy pouch in his belt. The coins rattled when he felt the weight in his palm, squeezing the lumpy pouch fondly, and he wondered if he even had ten shillings on him. It was a considerable amount of money for a bet made in boredom. A farmer could buy a good cow for ten shillings.

"You are regretting you bet, cousin?" Ritter Otto smirked.

"No, it does not amuse me, as it does some, to play it safe."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"I am merely implying that you are no gambler at heart."

"Ha! I shall bet you that there will be five and twenty dishes on the duke's table when we arrive. He is cheap in everything but his own pleasure, so that is a gamble."

"He is expecting the Queen Mother of England and the German Emperor to his gloomy lodgings. He may be cheap but he does not wish to appear so. Five and twenty dishes are still a moderately safe bet." The carriage jolted and turned to the left, passing the exit to a small farm, where a scrawny goat chewed lazily on the spots of yellow grass. "The peasants will have paid for the duke's vanity," Friedrich scoffed. "And that is two turns, without doubt."

"Two is still closer to five than twelve. I have to say Friedrich, this newfound social conscience of yours is quite endearing. Pray tell me, who was she? Because only a woman could sway a man with such haste."

"She? She, good cousin, was a player of cards who always put her bet on the heart. And he, sadly, was a gambler who swore he would roll a thirteen, and did. They are quite happy, I hope."

"Would you put a bet on that?"

Once again the carriage joggled violently, the unstable ground moving, planks rattling and squeaking beneath the floor. Count Friedrich's stomach flipped over in a wave of nausea, his head fleetingly scrambled into havoc. The carriage's brocade drapes danced like possessed spirits in the draught.

"Never put a bet on happiness," he swallowed down the queasiness and served his cousin a tense smile. "Put a bet against it and end a winner either way. That is three turns and still counting. Do you see how I gamble, Otto? If you win, we will be there sooner and I will feel a winner in any case, albeit a poor one. However if the journey is long and the turns many, I am rich but my buttocks hurt."

"Very wise, I suppose, if you insist of making gambling into some sport. But now I will hear more about this Queen of Hearts," Otto smiled so that two deep dimples appeared on his cheeks. In spite of his years moving into the third decade, Friedrich's cousin still hade a babyface with rosy cheeks and mirthful eyes which made him look like a cherub. There was a ridiculously well-cropped helmet of thin hair in some indefinable, dull colour, framing the round face, and his chest was broad with slumping shoulders, causing his build to resemble a church bell.

"Ah, the alluring Lady Marian. A creature of beauty," Friedrich responded concisely. "Words could not do her justice. Perhaps we shall see her in England when this king-business has been resolved."

"Well, come to mention it, it is her king and not ours."

"So it is. But it is our duke, and it will bring me great pleasure if I can be of some moderate discomfort to him."

"You truly do not like him, do you?!"

"He is a cheat! A dim-witted cheat, and I yet I was cheated by him. He is a very fat and very small man, who incidentally gets very angry when he himself is cheated."

"Then it must be our target to cheat him," Otto exclaimed jovially. "And I do think that is five turns and still no Dürnstein. This road is in great danger of making me a very poor man."

"It is six turns, not five," Count Friedrich corrected him. "Yes, to cheat the cheater, and also to get this king free from his conundrum. Then England will be indebted twice to my Queen of Hearts."

"She is your Queen of Hearts now? I thought she belonged to another."

"Yes well, perhaps the lady belongs more to herself than anything."

Count Friedrich smoothed out the ruby velvet in his outfit, savouring the feel of the expensive cloth against his soft hands, and smiled absently at the memory of his English friends. There was a magnetism surrounding the noble outlaw Robin Hood and his sly lady, it pulled you in and kept you enchanted long after the encounter had turned into shattered debris from memories you no longer managed to keep together. What was gambling in comparison to their life on the edge of everything? Rolling a dice only ever changed the fortune in the game, while life outside remained untouched by cheering victory or crushing defeat. Friedrich longed to see the world though the eyes of Robin Hood, because it seemed to have a shimmer, something magical which he craved for. So much hope and trust in people, so much love and sacrifice. He had wished to live the life of a romantic doer of all good deeds, just like them, and to put his foot firmly in the history books. Yet when he came back to Bavaria it had all somehow become a distant fairytale, far away from the reality of high politics and the idleness of wealth. Thus, travelling to Dürnstein was the first thing in months to truly put a spell on him, and give him the rush of excitement which he craved so badly. He did have a thing or two to settle with Duke Leopold, but the true reason behind this journey was something much vaguer than old gambling debts. It was an odd kind of loyalty to a cause that really wasn't his, and the rosy memory of a life which had made his own existence seem dull and sluggish in comparison.

"Nine!" Otto exclaimed, breaking a prolonged silence which had been caused by Friedrich's brooding - a rare mode for the extravagant count and one that his cousin didn't much care to get involved in. "There is Dürnstein in the horizon, a close call, but the bet is yours."

"Serves you right for playing it safe," Count Friedrich replied and held out his hand to his cousin's heavy pouch. "A man needs to take chances in life."

"No pain, no gain, eh?" Ritter Otto sighed deeply and untied the pouch from his belt, weighting it sadly in his hand for a while as if reluctant to let it go, then tossed it to Friedrich almost nonchalantly. "Take it, if your conscience allows you to rob the poor second son of your father's poor brother. What would your Queen of Hearts say about that?"

"Thank you," Count Friedrich smiled triumphantly and tied the pouch to his belt. The road had broadened and even out, the horses upped their pace, the jolts became less brutal. "And knowing Lady Marian, dear cousin Otto, I think she would merely roll her eyes."

--

Lady Marian rolled her eyes.

The light from the window was stretched out across the polished stone floor in the king's study - sharp at the bottom while the top blurred off into a soft arch, causing it to vaguely resemble a bishop's hat. It had moved while Marian stood here – the reflection inching closer to her while she listened to the king with quickly fading fortitude. In her hands the fallen noble woman held a bucket, or rather cradled it, as if she tried to draw strength from the coarse wood.

King Richard had taken to poetry during his imprisonment in Dürnstein, and on this day he was chanting Marian a French song, born from his very own quill and scribbled all over the parchments on his desk. The tune was a wailing, disharmonic affair and the lyric seemed to Marian like a sulking child's complaints, yet she listened to it with a smile frozen in courtesy. Six verses and more, which all ended with a moaning line about being imprisoned and forgotten. He claimed to have written it in Occitan as well as French, albeit Marian's knowledge in Occitan was so meagre that he didn't care to try that version on her. She had never felt quite so blessed by lack of knowledge in her life.

It occurred to Marian where she stood that even though patience may not be one of the king's virtues, he was a persistent kind of man. He went over a line, stopped to change a word or two, then went back to the very beginning. As a result she must have been standing here for half an hour and she still had not heard the song in full. She drummed her fingers against the bucket in her hands and waited for a pause to communicate her true errand, yet there were no pauses. She felt her endurance run through her fingers like fine sand.

"_Forment m'amoient, mes or ne m'aimment grain, De beles armes sont ores vuit li plain, Por tant que je sui pris_," the king took a pause to look at Marian expectantly. "Well? Better like that? I think the changes do it a world of good, the pace is better like this. Don't you agree?"

Marian gave the king a tense smile, reminding herself that she needed to be polite to the king of England even when her heart screamed in aggravation.

"It is very well-rhymed, your Majesty," she thus responded honestly. She heard a faint knocking noise and realized it was her own foot tapping against the floor, impatiently venting the excess energy which built up with her frustration. The king certainly didn't mind wasting people's time. Indeed, he rather treated her life like it rightfully belonged to him. It was with a tang of bitterness that it occurred to Marian that in a way he was right in that assumption. Her life was thrown from side to side like an autumn leaf, and he was the bloody wind.

"Thank you my lady. Of course, since my mother is from Aquitaine and a learned woman, I grew up with the arts. People often mistake me for being merely a man of the sword, but I do enjoy the company of the quill when I find myself in solitude, as you can tell."

"Yes."

The king looked up to her with the knowing smirk of a father contemplating a naïve child. It was so indulgent and magnanimous that it made her cringe. "Robin often said that you were a sharp woman, practical and astute, while he was a fool in love who followed you around like a puppy," King Richard smiled. "Do not worry My Lady, I had not expected you to have a great interest in poetry. Still, it is my regal prerogative to try and wake the slumbering romantic inside you. How do you think I communicate my grief over the imprisonment? I wish to move the listener, yet remain subtle."

Marian pressed her lips together, waiting for the rush of fury to pass before she spoke. What reason did he have to be so condescending towards her?! He made her sound so callous, even though she felt sure Robin cannot have intended for her to come across like that. She had been guarded even when she was young, but when Robin followed her around she had walked in circles to make the walk last longer. They had hardly been more than children playing tag after all, neither of them knowing how to handle the budding love inside them. She ignored the king's question and took on an air of determination, holding the bucket in her hands tighter. "Your Majesty," she snapped. "I did come here for a reason, if you do not mind. I need a moment of your time to express that reason. It is important."

"A moment of my time? I did not know you to be a jester! Time we got in abundance. I will listen, but do not rush me. I asked you a question and you did not answer - people have been hanged for less that that."

"I did not come to discuss poetry!"

"Lady Marian!"

Marian sighed and restrained herself, pulling her lips into a sardonic smile which was tense with fury. "Does my king wish me to be frank?" he asked in a sugary voice.

"I do not think you can be anything but frank, Lady Marian. To a fault more often than not, I would say."

"Then I have to say that I find the lyrics deeply disturbing."

"Disturbing?"

"The sentiment of the song did not particularly appeal to me. Perhaps, on account of being a woman of the gentry, I cannot fully sympathise with his majesty's pain."

Marian's heart thudded in restrained anger, deeply resenting the shallow etiquette which forced her to bow and curtsey her way through the world. She had forgotten how suffocating tradition was. How the shackles of nobility and womanhood chafed her wrists until she wished for nothing better than gnawing off her arms beneath the elbows - anything to be free! Marian had expected to like the king of England. She had fought for him so long that she had mistaken her struggles for a distant friendship, considered him an ally and a role model. Robin idolized him and because he did, so did she. Thus it came as a surprise for her to realize that the king and she had nothing in common. Her goals were not his, her thoughts and opinions meant nothing to him. It became increasingly apparent that the king was not an ally as much as a tool in the war they fought. There had always been a practical side of Lady Marian Fitzwalter, and without the 'Lady' and the 'Fitzwalter', Marian found that this sober approach to life's many perils became increasingly important to stay sane. The king's imprisonment was vastly superior to the lives of his subjects in Nottingham, yet he did nothing but moan over his own personal boredom! It had been a shock to realize that he actually blamed his people for not coming rushing to his rescue, while she had rather half-expected him to acknowledge his own mistakes. He should never have left his people in the first place!

The king frowned and moved so that he sat facing her, anger making his jaw tense. "You did not understand the sentiment?" he snapped. "I thought it was quite clear?"

"It was clear that you believe your people to have abandoned you," Marian hissed as the last of her patience disappeared. Her body tensed and she took a step towards the king. "What isn't clear is how the king of England could be such a fool! Can't you see that it is you who has abandoned them!? Can't you--" Too late Marian pressed her lips together again, lowered her eyes and shied away into a more submissive position. "I am sorry," she murmured, heart pounding fiercely in her chest. "I was out of line."

"Out of line!? You, my lady, are the queen of understatements." In anger the king's face seemed carved out of marble like some Greek statue, hard and pale with eyes like cold steel. "If I were you I would be very careful what I say. You plan to marry Robert of Locksley, is that not so? Then you must also know that I can raze those hopes with a flip of my thumb! If I refuse to give Robin my blessing…" Marian laughed, a mirthless chuckle which was sour with sarcasm, and the king fell silent in surprise. "You laugh at me?"

"If you force Robin to choose between us," Marian responded with a cold smile. "Who do you think he would choose? He chose you once - do you think he would do it twice?" She raised her eyebrow to King Richard who merely studied her in silence. "Is His majesty done now?" she continued softly. "My true reason for seeking His Majesty's company truly is a subject of some importance."

King Richard's stone-face nodded gravely at her as the king folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair. "Talk – with any luck you will be done before this insolence of yours crosses the boarder of high treason."

"Thank you," Marian curtsied. Somewhere below the rage she could hear her parents' woe over their wilful daughter, and she knew it had been a mistake to loose her patience. She had the upper hand now, a frail balance in power, yet she knew that she could never truly have any dominance in this room. It was against all the laws which dictate the world, since he was a man and a king, and she was a noblewoman whose bloodline died with her. "As you well know we expect your mother's company any day now," she continued softly. "If all goes well, you may be heading home. To England, not Aquitaine. I felt it was a matter of some urgency to make sure that trip will be safe."

"Indeed. That is a good initiative." The king's voice was professional now, his demeanour cold but not openly hostile. Apparently he had decided to put his own rage aside for now.

"And as you know we were attacked before the duke apprehended us."

"But surely that was the duke's men?"

"No! How many times must I tell you," Marian took a deep breath and restrained herself. "No," she repeated in a softer tone. "I know the men behind the attack, as I have mentioned, and they have nothing to do with the duke. I have reason to believe that they are waiting for us in the village. So, I set a trap."

"A trap?"

Marian reached down into the bucket, which she still held tightly in her arms, and fished up a big rat. She held the chunky tail pinched between her fingers and the dead rodent swung slowly from side to side. "A rat-trap," she responded, silently enjoying the drama which the macabre scene gave to the conversation.

"Lady Marian is this some kind of joke?! That rat is dead!"

The disgusted look on the king's face made Marian smile inwards. This was a man who had seen wars, yet the sight of a dead animal made him queasy and decidedly uncomfortable.

"Yes, unfortunately it is dead," she agreed, letting go of the tail so that the rat fell back into the bucket with a thud. "It is the reason for his demise which should interest…"

"Please, Lady Marian! Is there a point and will you please get to it with some haste?"

"As you wish. Then I must say there is a leak in the castle."

"A leak?"

"This place bleeds information," Marian explained and put down the bucket. "I suspected as much, that is why I set this trap. Servants' gossip is rarely confined by walls and armed guards. Hence I spread out that the king takes a special brew every morning and gave specific order to the kitchen to prepare it. Warm milk, honey and herbs. For less than a week such a brew has been coming with the maid, every morning. And every morning I have put it out for the rats to steal."

"But the rats are dead," the king exclaimed as the facts slowly dawned on him. "Do you mean to tell me that rat is deceased from drinking my supposed morning brew?"

"This one and two more. I found them this morning, bloated and quite dead. Someone poisoned it, and I feel certain that it is the same men who tried to assassinate you in the gouge. They are black knights, Bruder Lukas ad Ritter Johann. Johann is a knight like many others, unpleasant but no huge threat, but the monk is a frightening man. The day you leave here he will be ready, and he _will_ kill you. The dead rat proves that he knows what goes on in this castle, even the tiniest little details. I was hoping that we would be able to sneak out, now I fear that will not be so easily done."

"This is grave news indeed!"

"You take me seriously then?"

"I always take my life seriously, Lady Marian. If I didn't I would be long dead. This threat will have to be disposed of!"

"With what resources?!" Marian sighed. "As His Majesty said so eloquently in his very well-rhymed song, we are prisoners. Even if we have your mother's entourage with us it will be a gamble. I do not know--"

Marian's line was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, and the hinges squeaked as the heavy wood swung open to reveal a servant dressed in fancy livery. He bowed at the imprisoned king and took a few soft steps into the room, all eyes glued on his scrawny apparition.

"I beg you pardon," he said in a submissive voice which was hardly more than a whisper. "But His Majesty is wanted in the great hall. _They_ have arrived."

--

The great hall of Dürnstein Castle was the kind of hall which is built to house a giant but no great amount of people, being high but rather narrow. A great hearth took up one side and the air was smoggy and stifling with fumes from a crackling fire, making Marian's eyes water. The space was already filled with the buzz of two dozen voices, multiplying between the walls, when she arrived half a step behind the king. While His Majesty strode into the room with the confident steps of a man expecting to be in the very centre of attention, Marian lingered in the dusk by the kitchen entrance. It had become a habit which she knew would always remain with her - to always keep one wary eye on her surroundings and prefer the corners rather than walk placid into open spaces.

"Maria! Komm mit!"

The name, which Marian was called by in the castle, was hissed in a shrill whisper, eager and loud in spite of the owner's effort to hush it. Soon thereafter Erika's hand closed around Marian's arm and the servant girl started to tug her English friend towards a rickety bench by the wall. Erika's eyes were so big that they startled Marian when she turned around, a wide-eyed stare looking eerie in their excitement. They reflected the candles, glimmering like stars in a black pond, and her eyebrows were elevated into two wide arcs below the newly washed head cloth.

"Ric," Marian responded in French, using one of the matron-like young woman's many nicknames. "I have been meaning to talk to you. Remember the king's brew? With the herbs and the--"

"Oh, hush," Erika smiled, flapping her hand as if she had burned it and needed to fan the wound. "We simply cannot talk about that now! There s so much happening, I don't know where to start!" She took a deep breath, resting her hands on her knees as if trying to ground herself, and switched over to French when she resumed her rambling. "I will tell you all about the visitors, that is what I am going to do!" she exclaimed, counting the names on her fingers while she mentioned them one by one. "Your king of course, is here, and now also his mother. And she got a Lady B something-something with her—Blanche I think. One of those fat, jolly old women y'know? Then there is Marcel, some sort of fancy kind of servant. Slimy, if you ask me, thinks himself better than everyone. I am sure he doesn't even empty his own potty, people like him never do… She got three strange types with her as well. I tried to talk to them but the lads only knew English and the gal was one of those people who just reeks trouble. Stunning though, in her own way. My father would have taken a certain liking to her I think, he always liked women like that." Erika snorted at the mentioning of her father, a man who she had very little respect for, and rolled her eyes. "Names," she swiftly continued, dodging away from the sidetrack of her own family history in a rare moment of focused thinking. "I'm usually good at names, mind you—but I haven't talked much to those no-good rouges or whatever they are. Hm, oh her name was Griet! And the lads Allan and Lucas or Luke or something. English I think. So, that is one company, but there is more! Can you believe it!?" Erika took another deep breath, sighing as if she was exhausted by all this talking. "The German emperor is here! Just briefly I think, he already seems bored with the whole ordeal. I was talking to one of his maids and she says he was all moans and sighs on the way here. Bad roads, bad company, bad weather. Nobles are like that sometimes, too posh for their own good, but he is here all the same. Oh, and not to forget, of course there is Count Friedrich and his cousin as well. Ritter Otto - that is the cousin's name I believe. Not half as rich but twice as fat, albeit in a cute, fluffy kind of way. Like a puppy, you know? Or a toddler perhaps… Perhaps Friedrich makes the money and Otto eats them all. Anyway, his servants always have the oddest clothes - it will make you laugh and laugh! All stripes and puffy hats."

Erika giggled girlishly and hugged Marian's stiff arm in an eagerness which she made no attempt on restraining. In her world this day was one which would be gossiped about for years to come - how she suddenly found herself thrown into the very centre of the European high politics, serving dishes to kings and queens alike. This job always had a certain romantic ring to it, giving her stories to retell which made her siblings sit wide-eyed by the fireplace - listening to her for hours during Christmas. To them the life of Jesus seemed bland in comparison. Yet this day by far surpassed even her most elaborated tales of royal hunting parties and weeklong feasts, and she could hardly keep herself still.

The wall was cold behind Marian, massive, polished stone which lay too obscurely to be covered in tapestries. While Erika giggled and rambled she sat silently, her body stiff and guarded while she let her eyes dart from face to face in the smoky room. She was beyond surprises by now. When her eyes landed on Allan-a-Dale, slumped down between the English Queen mother and some extravagant girl who made drinking a glass of wine seem like a performance in itself, she merely frowned and accepted that the world was odd. She could swear the next lad was Luke Scarlett and added this fact to the list of peculiarities as well. In times like this information needed to be sifted trough a very fine net, discarding everything that wasn't worth her attention. It didn't matter that Allan and Luke was here. They weren't important.

Queen Aliénor, however, was important, and to see her made Marian's heart thud in a faint shadow of Erika's excitement. She continued wander down the table, deciding that the rosy-faced old woman must be the queen's lady-in-waiting and the grim man next to Duke Leopold the German Emperor. She knew that the emperor wasn't a king like Richard, but rather the highest lord of a number of largely independent states, but he was without doubt the most powerful man in the room. Richard was a prisoner while his mother really only was here to crawl, and the emperor certainly outranked the duke. Thus she had hoped for a sympathetic man, and felt a tang of disappointment as she studied his aloof expression across the hall. It was the look of a man who didn't wish to remain in this company, but rather came here only to do his duty. He smiled coldly and nodded at Queen Aliénor while she picked on her plate with her fingers, careful not to get the hems of her sleeves greasy. They were polite, albeit not friendly, and the Austrian duke seemed largely displeased with their conversation. King Richard had a place there as well, eating as a king rather than a prisoner and dressed in velvet and brocades. At last Marian's eyes fell on Friedrich and a man that must be his cousin Otto. The sight of her old friend made her heart flip in joy, partly because he was the one person in this room which she truly held dear, and party because he still carried a scent of a simpler time. She recalled their days together in Nottingham Castle and realized that it had been the most fun she had there since Vaysey became sheriff. The memory was quickly expanded to involve Robin, as it always did, and she forced it away. This was no time for romantic reminiscing.

"… I said, and she said something about working here long, but I just reminded 'er that it doesn't matter, does it? She's just a servant, she can't invite anyone, no matter how fancy he is or how dashing he looks in his knight templar's uniform…"

"What?" Marian gasped, her attention suddenly caught by a word in Erika's rambling. "Did you say something about a knight templar?"

"Ay! Haven't you been listening at all?! Oh, that horrible gal talks of naught else! It's Johann this, Johann that…"

"What?! Johann? As in Ritter Johann? What girl?!"

"The kitchen lass I told you about! Emma! She met 'im in the village, and now she wanted to get him invited to this feast! Silly girl!"

Marian gave out a little yelp of shock. So that was the leak, but was it the only one? She mentally cursed the kitchen girl for her poor taste in men, all of a sudden being more than willing to agree with every harsh word Erika had spoken about the flirty young woman. _Emma._ Danger comes in many forms, yet ignorance may be the hardest one to defeat. Marian took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on one gigantic problem at a time. First they needed to get the king out of imprisonment. The question regarding how to get him out alive just had to wait.

Marian's body felt oddly numb when she rose from the bench and started walking slowly towards the high table, following the trail of servants that scurried along the walls like rats. Her heart thudded, her ears ringing, yet her mind was perfectly sharp and calm, as if it rested in the eye of the storm. When she reached count Friedrich she leaned forward, pressing her body to the side of his chair while she bent down to refill his glass. He smelled like she remembered, a rather heavy scent of aromatic oils and sweat beneath too many layers of clothes, and a faint shudder ran though her limbs. This was so close, so close to her memories, so close to her past. The trail back to England seemed to lay open before her anew, and the prospects made her breathing ragged. Suddenly the count turned to her side, and everything appeared to stand still as their eyes met - one brief moment of time which decided to defy the laws of nature and simply rest for a while. Then the count flinched, his eyes widened and he took up a napkin to cover his mouth. He coughed so that only Marian could hear the gasp of pure shock which escaped his lips, and she realized that she had never seen him so taken aback - although, truth to be told, their friendship had not been a lengthy one. She pouted her lips slightly, breathing out a discreet hush while she continued to pour wine into the jug. When she was done she smiled a shallow servant's smile and turned to Count Friedrich.

"There you are My Lord," she said out loud in her stumbling German.

"Thank you." The count took up a couple of dice form his pocket, rolling them nervously in his palm. "Thank you M-- maid."

"Has My Lord come here for a gamble?" Marian continued in a polite tone, nodding at the dice. "Or has he come for a hunt?"

Count Friedrich titled his head towards her, an amused grin walking across his face before he set it in his usual aloof expression. "A bit of both I think," he responded flatly and waved her away to not attract any attention to their conversation. "A bit of both."

Marian turned on her heal and moved back to the servant's bench with swift steps, her mind slowly filling with memories of the count and England, the castle, the forest and Robin. The now all too common longing set in again, and it surprised her to realize that the count had done very little to eradicate the immense feeling of loneliness which made her heart seem so hollow. She wanted to go home. All these twists and turns and her heart's desire felt simpler than ever. There were no conflicts, no doubt, just a clear road and her firm determination to walk down it no matter how long it took. At times like this, rescuing the king appeared to Marian as nothing but a task she threw in while she was at it, like a woman deciding to wash a sheet because she has a bunch of laundry to do anyway.

--

The count turned back to his plate of food and lifted the newly filled glass to his lips, a familiar tingle of excitement making the hair on his arms rise. It was a shock to see Lady Marian here and his mind buzzed with a completely new set of questions, already lining up a number of possible, albeit not likely, explanations for her presence. Why had she not visited him on her way down here? Was Robin in the castle as well? Something had seemed different about her, a sense of frustration which she never truly gave off in Nottingham in spite of being trapped and in constant danger there.

"Five."

Count Friedrich flinched and turned to Otto who was looking at him with a cheeky smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Five is how many hours this horrible dinner will last before we can get some sleep. Will you put in a bet against it?"

Friedrich shrugged is shoulders absentmindedly, his head still spinning with the sudden turn of events. Queen Aliénor, King Richard if possible, himself and Marian – the four of them and a couple of people from their respective entourages, and that was about it. As armies goes it wasn't particularly impressive, but they were a crafty bunch. They could win this, get the king out in one piece and save England, but it was a gamble. It was always a gamble.

"Friedrich?" Otto repeated puzzled, giving his cousin a light shuffle. "It is not like you to turn away from a good bet!"

The count turned to his friend and raised his eyebrow, composing his features so that the tumult beneath the surface would remain hidden.

"Forgive me. Two shillings on one hour," he said in a beset voice. "No more and no less, although I admit it is a bet on a dream more than anything. I cannot stand five hours in this stifling atmosphere! My skin itches as if the air was filled with fleas. No, it will have to be one hour at most, or I will surely die."

"Always the optimist, my dear cousin. One hour it is then."

"Oh," Friedrich sighed in infinite self-pity. "Not an optimist, no, but always a gambler." He raised his cup in a cheer and leaned forwards to give the King of England a shallow smile. It was acknowledged with an absentminded nod, the regal eyes flashing him one look before they darted away from him in lack of interest. "Everything in this life is a gamble," Count Friedrich murmured and gulped down the wine, "and I never turn down a challenge."

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**NEXT: One of the following things occur: Much scheming takes place and the road to England is finally open anew for our heroine, or Robin and his gang tumble over something they didn't expect. What will it be people? Dürnstein or Sherwood in chapter 23? It is all up to you.**


	24. Chapter 23: The Swamp Trap

**Thanx for the comments!**

**Chanel: Thank you. Updates are slow atm but I got most of the story in my head alreday.  
Gatewatcher: I kind of liked making the king kind of haughty and full of himself. I just loved having Marian snap at him lol.  
Mizco: Don't worry, I am on the verge of giving you what you want ;) I'm sorry about it taking so long lol  
Ese: Sherwood it is, hope you like it  
Electra: Oh you people are ganging up on me aren't you? lol. You've been chanting 'reunion' for MONTHS now! lo., well it's not far away now. ;)  
Ana: I do love your comments, they brighten my day when they arrive :s: There will be a bit more on Marian and Allan's reunion I think, but Marian's got a lot on her mind atm. We still got Allan's reaction to go ;)  
Ignorance-is-bliss: I tried my best to make Count Fredrick true to the show's character, but it was very difficult. Queen Eleanor, however, I choose to make into a more personal interpretation. The same goes for the king. As for the story being long and drawn out, you are right. I tend to want to put everything in it, and there are a lot of threads to follow...**

**This chapter is in Sherwood, b/c that is what most people wanted.**

**xxxTrixxx**

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**Chapter 23: The Swamp Trap**

_-In which old friends are reunited in a rather messy way_

Two heads, one fair like the moon and one black like the raven's plumage, moved between the budding vegetation of Sherwood Forest. The fair one sat tensely on an aging gray stallion while the dark one was perched lazily upon on a fox brown mare. Across the muddy road the branches of the trees hung heavily, weighed down by a drizzling spring rain which clung to the young leaves. Both riders ducked from the bowing limbs of the vegetation, agile like the soldiers they were, yet the fair one kept one wary eye on the surroundings while the dark one seemed largely untroubled by the world. Indeed, Carter and his dark companion Sir Adam of Kent were each other's opposites in more ways than one, but instead of creating an entity like yin and yang, their union was an entirely disharmonic affair.

The greenery rustled faintly and Carter tensed, turning his head to the roof of web-like branches in search of the current of air which must have caused the sound. Yet the forest was still and the boughs appeared unmoved by any playful breezes. The dusky air between the trees appeared stale and the ground between the trunks was water-sick, a putrid swamp covered in moss. Carter pulled the reins of the gray stallion, holding the animal back slightly while he studied the eerily silent surroundings. There was the sound of a whistle from Sir Adam, rising and sinking in a shrill twittering which turned into a tune, and then a humming. He had a deep, clear voice, rich like the damp forest soil but frail like the young leaves, and it was not the first time that Carter wondered why this jolly sound sent such shivers of dread down his spine. There was nothing about Sir Adam that he did not loathe after these months of being stuck together.

"_The lions of the hill are gone and I am left alone, alone_," the dark man's humming turned into the lyrics of an old song, "_Dig my grave both wide and deep, for I am sick and fain would sleep_—ah!" he sighed dramatically in a bard's shallow woe. "Such gloomy lyrics, is it not? Waste of a sweet tune, yet enthralling – in a way - in its melancholy. These trees seem to beg for songs like these, don't you think so, my pale and most proper pal? Listen! Not even the birds cheer today! Perhaps they have all found their mates already, and found them to be dreadful nags on closer acquaintance. Why would love be any different for birds after all?" He laughed and started to whistle again, the tones wavering as if they were either crying or shivering with restrained laughter.

Carter made an attempt to shut out the shrill whistling, yet as he watched the trees they now seemed like an audience, magically enchanted into silence. Another rustling made him flinch in anxiety, failing to sense the wind anew.

"It does not blow yet I hear leaves rustling," he murmured troubled.

"Oh, an animal my friend!" Sir Adam exclaimed. "What a warrior you are to be startled by a rabbit!"

Carter grunted in disdain for his companion, biting back a sneering response since he knew it would make the other man laugh all the merrier. He had to acknowledge that there was some truth behind the statement. An animal was a more than likely explanation to these ghost-sounds. The gray stallion tossed his throat edgily, making the bridle rattle, and the rider leaned forward to whisper some soothing phrases. Did the horse find this setting sinister as well, or did the animal merely pick up on his own anxiety?

"_The falcons of the wood are flown and I am left alone… alone_," Sir Adam continued singing, venturing into the next verse of the morose tune with a voice which was brimful with mirth. A branch creaked. Leaves rustled. Still there was no wind. "With all these rabbits skippering though the foliage we should go hunting, my bloodless brother!" he suddenly cut off the song in the middle of a word, watching a branch which leaves had started to tremble in the still afternoon.

Carter frowned and let his eyes dart from tree to tree. Sir Adam's statements always seemed so harmless and light, completely nonchalant of the current setting. It seemed as if he considered the world he lived in to be some fairytale where he controlled the plot. How could a man be at war for years and come out like this? At times he seemed to lack all depth, yet shallow waters had never felt more threatening to Carter than in Adam's jolly incarnation. Perhaps that was the real danger here, this beautiful nobleman who had the bad taste of sharing the name with the very first human to inhabit the world, and behaved much like he was still roaming through Eden alone. Who, in fact, behaved as if the world _was_ an Eden still, a place of infinite mirth and innocence in spite of the merciless cruelty which seemed to smother it, this Anno Domini, 1193. On the paper Sir Adam did little wrong. He was infinitely positive and friendly, yet everything about him was wrong in Carter's eyes.

Perhaps there was nothing but rabbits in the bushes, but Carter's gut feeling told him otherwise. In the end it made more sense to trust his own, vague intuition than the words of Sir Adam of Kent, no matter how many good points the beautiful young nobleman made in his ramblings.

"Good heavens Carter!" Sir Adam suddenly exclaimed. "Watch your head, man!"

Carter opened his mouth to ask what in the devil Sir Adam was on about now, when a gush of wind made him turn to his left instead. There was a twang, as from a rope snapping, and a rain of tiny beads of water showered over the fair man. For a moment Carter stared at the tree which seemed to have come alive, boughs swaying, leaves shrugging, twigs bowing wildly. The last thing he saw before he was plunged down into the slippery mud was a tuft of spring-green leaves and ropy twigs clawing at his body.

The horse below him neighed in panic and reared up high, making Carter grab an armful of attacking leaves and hugging them desperately, as he slid helplessly off the saddle. He wiggled his feet loose from the stirrups in an act of self-preservation which came from his solder's intuition, making his body limp in order to fall as safely as possibly. The world was a blur around him, his head woozy from the attack which had been too sudden for him to register. Then he let out a moaning 'guh' as he smashed into the mud with a wet thud and let go of the twigs which had failed to soften the fall. The air was knocked out of his lungs, leaving the bewildered soldier with a feeling of rising panic, struggling to rise from the slippery road.

"Ah! Ad- Adam!" Carter yelled with gasping breaths. "W-What the—eff!" He had his hand on the pommel, ready to draw his sword as soon as his feet could find the ground anew, when he felt a weight against his chest and froze in his movement. His eyes followed the blunt object which was now pressed to his torso, recognizing it as a long staff. A giant of a man towered over him, and in a moment of immense relief Carter relaxed, sinking down into his bed of sludge with a hoarse laughter.

"Oh—John! Li—little John!" he gasped as soon as he found his voice anew. "Is this the famous Sherwood hospitality I have heard so much about? Pray tell me, how ever," he swallowed hard and wheezed for air, "did you win over the trees to your—ow, sweet lord my rear aches! Forgive me—the trees—how did you win the—them over to your cause? I do not think even the sheriff dare taxing them."

The pressure was released and Carter was hauled up from the ground with so much force that he for a brief moment felt like he was flying, his head reeling from the movement. Before him stood Robin Hood, his bow drawn but lowered to aim at the ground, a grin of recognition spreading across his unshaven face. There stood Little John with his palm resting on Carter's arm and the long staff in his other, and there stood Much, with his short sword still half-lifted towards Sir Adam's constantly merry apparition, even though the nobleman seemed to be largely unaffected by the presence of the silvery blade. The trees which had been set to trap the riders still rocked faintly, framing the scene with dishevelled branches.

You couldn't find the king of the forest even if you roved for months, or so they said in the villages, but he could find you. Carter almost laughed out loud at his own luck - how nervous he had been when it in fact was not doom, but bliss, which had stalked him! Germany had been a curse, bad luck upon bad luck causing the trip to take twice as long as he had anticipated. It had been winter when they left Vienna, now spring was upon England. All along time was increasingly scarce, and as days were added to days and weeks upon weeks, Carter had feared that he would reach Robin too late. Yet here he was – the king of Sherwood alive and smiling in the midst of the budding vegetation, ready to face another spring of his adventurous life.

"Robin!" Carter laughed. "Am I glad to see you!" The two men hugged brotherly, thumping each other on the back.

"Forgive me my friend," Robin said as they parted. "Our vision was obstructed. We may be lawless but we do not rob dear acquaintances, you can trust me on that."

"You can rob me all you like but I have little to give," Carter smiled, rubbed his sore bum with a grimace, then smiled again. "It has been a very long trip back here Robin. This is Sir Adam." He nodded at the dark man, who was watching the scene with open fascination and made a courteous little bow. To Carter's great annoyance Adam seemed to have made it through the ambush completely unscathed, his horse chewing lazily on some leaves right behind him while Carter's mare was nowhere to be seen.

"Much," Robin exclaimed as he turned towards the stranger who still had a blade pointed at him. "Lower your sword! This is no way to greet a guest. Sir Adam, forgive my friend - he is merely being cautious. We cannot afford to trust strangers here. There are too many enemies."

"No offence taken," Sir Adam smiled, nonchalantly brushing a leaf off his cloak.

Carter tensed as Much backed off and shook hands with Adam, reluctantly polite towards the handsome stranger. Robin cocked an eyebrow at Carter as he noted how ill at ease the blond crusader seemed, intent on posing a silent question. It was a gesture which he must have inherited from Marian, Carter mused. It seemed so much like an echo of her that it was uncanny, two people who mirrored each other even though they were miles and months apart, even parted by her supposed death. The recollection of Marian's death, or rather the fact that she wasn't dead, caused a sudden pang of guilt to stab Carter's gut. There were undoubtedly things Robin needed to know. Things about the king, about Sir Adam's trustworthiness, about Marian. Yet Carter still wasn't sure how much he should reveal about that last subject. So much was potentially thin ice beneath Lady Marian's hovering ghost that Carter pushed it away for now, forcing himself to focus on more pressing matters than Robin's heart. He knew full well that Robin might resent him for it later on, yet that was a risk he was willing to take. This game had high stakes, and England needed Robin Hood more than Carter needed Robin's gratitude.

"Is this Sir Adam to be trusted?" Robin murmured under his breath so that only Carter could hear, ripping the crusader from his musings.

"Like a snake," Carter hissed in response, and Robin nodded gravely.

"He is Sir Adam of Kent then? I heard of his reputation in the Holy Land. _The laughing_ _dagger _they called him back then, I doubt that he has changed his disposition much since. War doesn't alter those who are merely amused by it. Do you fear he might double-cross us?"

"I fear he might tripe-cross us, and that for a laugh and naught else," Carter scoffed. "Yet I have to admit I have no proof."

"I trust your instincts my friend. We will treat him accordingly and take care," Robin responded with a firm nod, before he started to turn away as if he considered the tête-à-tête finished.

"Wait! Robin, there is more," Carter quickly added to keep the outlaw's attention. "How much do you know about what has happened to the king?"

"The king?" Robin burst out. His body tensed instantly and his face was distorted into a worried scowl. Carter could almost feel the surge of desperation radiating out from the outlaw leader, and it occurred to him that Robin must fear the worst.

"Calm down my friend, he is alive and well," he thus reassured Robin before raising his voice so that the rest of the group would hear. "My friends, I do bring sad tidings about the true carrier of the English crown. King Richard has been taken prisoner in Austria. He is held for ransom by the duke Leopold, who unfortunately got the emperor's blessing for his actions. Apparently it all boils down to some dispute in the Holy Land..."

"What?" Much interrupted. His jaw had dropped in shock, as Carter had suspected by the bad news be brought them, yet it occurred to him that Robin's reaction was merely one of bitter acceptance. The outlaw leader seemed to suck up negative reports as if he expected nothing else. "The king is imprisoned!?" Much continued, turning to his leader for guidance. "Robin! Robin, we must—well, we must go there! Aid him! Mustn't we? He is the king! Our king! We need him!"

"No Much, we must not," Robin shook his head. "If the duke got the emperor's blessing for this then it is serious high politics, and that means that he is out of our reach. It is not a matter of simply robbing the king back - such interference could cause wars to blossom, and that we cannot risk."

"Yes," Carter agreed, relieved that Robin saw it his way. "The queen mother is rumoured to have reached the castle, she will do her best to negotiate her son's release. Meanwhile there is another one of her sons that should concern us."

Robin nodded again, cocking his head towards the sky with a sigh. "Prince John," he drawled.

"Prince John?" Much asked worriedly.

"No better time to snatch a bone than when the dog is chained," Robin smiled bitterly. "He will use this opportunity to try and seize the throne for himself."

"Oh."

The group fell into a glum brooding, leaving Carter to truly study them for the first time. It had not occurred to him until now quite how awful they all looked, and the realisation sent a cold shiver running down his spine. The noble outlaws appeared to have shrunk so that even Little John was less of a giant. Their clothes were tattered and torn, layer upon layer of dirty rags to keep some heat in the chilly spring. It made their bodies look slightly puffy, but the necks which rose from the cloth were stringy, the faces hollowed-out, and the cloth seemed to hang on them as if they were merely scarecrows wrapped up in scraps or wool. Once he noticed the change Carter found it difficult to shrug off the uneasiness he felt.

"Well!" Robin finally broke the silence with a tense smile. "It seems we are five for supper his evening. Tonight we feast like kings of the forest. Tomorrow we deal with the sheriff."

"I hate to be the realist here but we don't actually have anything to feast on," Much pointed out soberly. "Unless we decide to fillet the pigeon, all we got is some mouldy bread."

"We do not eat Chuckles!" Little John stated, slamming his staff to the soggy ground.

"Chuckles?" Carter asked puzzled.

"The pigeon Will and Djaq gave us in the holy land," Robin explained with a smile. "There are more feathers than meat on him, I'm sure Much wasn't serious."

"They should have given us a carrier hen instead," Much mumbled. "At least we would have an egg every now and then."

Robin laughed silently, then spoke up again. "We will feast upon the little food we do have, and share it as brothers. At least the company is far superior of that of the royal court." He smiled and placed a welcoming palm on Carter's shoulder. "And now spring is here." At those words Robin's eyes locked into Much's in an attempt to be reassuring, yet all that Carter could see was a barely subdued desperation which made his uneasiness grow. "It will be easier from now on," the outlaw leader stated. "Life will be easier."

--

The dying light elongated the shadows that striped the floor of the sheltered forest glade, where the outlaws and their guests sat huddled together around a crackling fire. The twigs were damp and smoke curled up in a thick veil which dispersed among the treetops. There was a burst of laughter and a skin of ale exchanged hands for yet another round, when Carter's bladder called him to the far end of the clearing.

"Watch your step," Robin called after him. "We're in the midst of a mire."

There was some cursing and a wet, sucking sound coming from the shadowy silhouette of the blond crusader, causing another burst of laughter to erupt from the group around the fire.

"Don't say I did not warn you," Robin smiled.

"Too late, and on purpose… so… I'm sure… of it," Carter's voice yelled rather louder than necessary, ending the chopped-up sentence with a content sigh and a rippling sound from running liquid. "Why have you chosen this unfriendly location anyway?" the crusader asked as we sauntered back towards the gang, slumping down on a coat which was sprawled out over the damp leaves.

"If it is unfriendly for us, it is near fatal for our enemies," Robin explained. "They do not know where to step, we do."

"You lure them into the mire like some malevolent fairies of the olden times," Sir Adam grinned, cutting off another piece of the smoky sausage, which he and Carter had brought to the meal, with his hunting knife. "Many a soldier would not consider such behaviour fair play, albeit I must admit I am not one of them."

"We run, they follow," Little John grunted and scowled at the cheerful knight who he had taken an instant aversion to. "It is fair."

Sir Adam shrugged. "I was merely making light conversation, my burly brother. No offence intended, I assure you."

"And none taken," Robin intervened, holding Little John's eyes a moment as if he was trying to communicate more than his words revealed. "We are far beyond fair play, Sir Adam. This is not some game."

"Game," Much sighed nostalgically, causing everyone to turn to his rather flustered face. The skin of ale had somehow landed in his arms again and he took another greedy gulp before he hugged it close to his body, sheltering it from any grabbing hands. "Venison. Rabbit. Oh, even-- even squirrel. It is really quite tasty, just that there is very little of it," he pointed out in drunken wisdom. Then his face became grave and he changed subject. "Robin almost killed a horse here once, in the Knighton mire, didn't you master?"

"I did not kill it," Robin exclaimed in indignation. "He got a slight limp!"

"A severe limp. The poor horse was ruined," Much continued and squinted as he tried to recall the distant memory.

"What happened?" Carter asked and tried to grab the ale from Much, who bluntly ignored his efforts.

"Oh the folly of youthful pride," Robin responded. "I should not have ventured into these water-sick grounds which I did not know. Marian did it with such ease you see. This is not far from Knighton Hall and she knows it—well, knew it—like the back of her hand. I did not wish her to outshine me, as simple as that. Half-way though I regretted my choice when the horse stepped into the mud and fell over…"

"… throwing you off." Much added. "You had mud up to your neck! Looked like some swamp monster when we found you."

"Throwing me off," Robin admitted reluctantly. "And I had mud up and_ beyond_ my neck, my friend, but mostly from the trouble of getting the horse up and getting it home. It was dark when I came back."

"Came back!" Much exclaimed. "We _found _you, didn't we? We brought you back. You sat sobbing your eyes out when we finally got to you. Made it rather easy really, we just hade to follow the wailing sound."

"This is a threatening place for a young lad by dusk," Robin defended his young self. It took quite a lot of ale to get Much to mock him like this, yet he knew that the underlying tone was tender and thus did not mind it. "I was cold and dirty. I thought I would be lost in the swamp forever."

"No one would have left the future lord of Locksley to rot in a bog, you should have known better. Anyway, said and done and done and said, as it was we found him and took him home. They had to cut off large chunks of his hair when we got back because it was such a tangled mess," Much continued rambling. "And of course Marian insisted on being present. What was it she said, master? Ah! '_He is my husband to be_,' she said. '_It is my hair, because it is I who will have to look upon it_'."

Robin laughed at the memory, so long gone that the bitterness which had originally accompanied it had faded away. "She said they should have used sheep-scissors because I had been such a sheep," he continued the tale and a nostalgic smile lingered in his absentminded face. "My Marian - she never was one to mince matters."

"Well, she always did have a soft-spot for animals. She probably felt sorry for the poor horse." Much smiled warmly, yet the tender words brought a change to Robin which he had not anticipated. The outlaw leader's grin froze, became sharp like a dagger as all joy was drained from it. His jaw tensed and his face was twisted into a scowl.

"She had too much pity for beasts," he hissed bitterly between clenched teeth. "That was her undoing."

An air of intense discomfort draped over the camp like a wet blanket and the glances that passed from face to face seemed heavy with silent questions. Much looked at John, who shrugged and shook his head, and Carter turned to Robin only to find that he had shut himself up like a clam. The lawless leader had his arms pressed around his legs, pushing them up towards his chest, his eyes were dark and his mouth a tense line which seemed intent on never speaking another word.

"He gets like that often?" Carter murmured at Much, who shrugged uneasily.

"It happens. He still misses her rather badly, I think. Well, at times anyway. He is better, he really is. He just isn't all that well all the time."

Carter nodded and tried to suppress the guilt which tugged on his mind anew, yet it was hard to ignore the fact that he had seen Marian alive long after she was supposedly dead. He had decided to keep it discreet, not telling Robin about Marian since he had no way of knowing what her continued fate had been after they parted. It was a possibility that she had been killed when the king was captured, and if so, it made little sense to raise Robin's hopes in vain. His grief now was considerably less raw than it would be if he was forced to face her death once again. Furthermore Carter had a sneaking suspicion that Robin would be less willing to stay in England and fight if he suspected that Marian might be alive in Germany. All these had been valid reasons, yet they all seemed to have less impact on Carter now that he stood faced with his friend's lingering sorrow. Perhaps it was the ale that did it, perhaps the atmosphere in the camp. In either case he inhaled the musty scent of the swamp in a deep sigh and found himself speaking the words which he had promised himself to keep silent.

"Robin," he said. "There is something you should know about Marian."

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**NEXT: Dürnstein castle is attacked, not by swords, but by cunning plans and plain gambling. Is Marian finally going home and will the pitiful king escape his gilded cage?**


	25. Chapter 24: Three of Dames

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**Well people, we have now reached 200 reviews for this story! It is also now the longest fic I have written, so we break record after record ;)**

**For the people who have commented on my spelling, I just want to point out that I am writing in my second language. You may point out mistakes if you wish to, but you can't expect me to get everything right. Most of this chapter is betad, but there may still be mistakes. **

**I exhausted from work so I will cut this A/N short and go aon and post the chapter. Thank for all the reviews!**

**xxxTrixxx**

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**Chapter 24: Three of Hearts**  
_  
-In which Allan is a man of many insights_

"You look good," Allan-a-Dale stated as he found himself faced with Lady Marian in the king's chamber. "Death becomes you."

"Is that your idea of a compliment, Allan?" Marian responded, her eyebrow raised into a crumpled arch in her forehead.

The chamber was crowded with new acquaintances and old friends, nobles and commoners side by side, who all studied the exchange. Count Friedrich and Ritter Otto were seated on the bed, knees bumping awkwardly into King Richard's who had left the only chair to Lady Blanche and sat uncomfortably on a small stool. It was age before status, which the queen's lady in waiting had accepted without any fuss. As she was quick to point out, she had known 'Little Ricky' since he was naught but a child his swaddling clothes.

On the other side of the room the commoners lounged. Luke Scarlett had grown quite a bit since Marian last saw him, while Allan, bless him, remained exactly as she remembered. However blunt it was, his comment didn't truly upset Marian as it would have done in a different time. There was a certain homeliness about it all, an annoyance which came across as rather warm compared to the ordeals she had been through the last couple of months. You could always trust Allan to be Allan (which was a good enough reason not to trust him too much). By his side stood the woman who had presented herself as Griet de Sael, as if that was the proudest name in Europe.

To Duke Leopold and the emperor, Queen Aliénor had presented Allan as a man from the British gentry, Griet as his half-sister and Luke as his manservant, although no one currently in this room could have been fooled into thinking that Allan was in any way noble. The queen had no intention to have the emperor think that she was travelling around the countryside with a group of common rascals, and thus Allan and his friends had been dressed up in a flowery French fashion. Griet carried it splendidly while Allan looked like a rogue whatever he was wearing, his hair ruffled and his posture as slack as ever. As for poor Luke, he just seemed lost in the puffy pink shirt and matching hat which Lady Blanche had picked out for him.

"Wha', I said you look good, like, didn't I?" Allan smirked. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Nothing wrong!" Luke Scarlett burst out and Marian turned to the young man with mild amusement. His face was blushing in a colour which matched his name, and she could see a shadow of Will's righteous anger budding in his handsome features. "It's so tasteless!"

"Not quite as tasteless as your shirt, mind you." Allan responded and grinned frivolously. "Good to see you tough, Lady M."

Marian nodded indulgingly and thus the first rendezvous between the not so late lady and a rather travel-sick Allan-a-Dale ended. Once everyone's eyes darted away from the trickster, Griet's gaze lingered on his usually relaxed apparition. She saw the smile on his face falter and his posture become unsteady as if the ground had melted beneath his feet. He licked his lips and his eyes kept finding their way back to Marian in disbelief. Griet had become so used to Allan's gaze being firmly planted upon herself that she found the lack of his attention slightly unsettling. It wasn't jealously as much as a nagging absence, and in the same heartbeat she realized that the constricted sensation in her chest was cursed by concern rather than the musty air in the room. Even as Allan tried to shake off the shock, mouthing to himself to get a grip, he appeared distressed.

Cautiously Griet took a step towards Allan, planting a hand gingerly below his elbow. He flinched and stared in wonder as her delicate fingers travelled down his arm, braiding into his while the hair on his skin rose in response to her touch. Finally she planted her other hand firmly upon the two entangled ones, her pale complexion against his tanner one, and cradled it tenderly. She had half-expected him to crack some crude joke, but instead he gave her a swift smile, crooked and shy as it melted his frown away. She thought perhaps his eyes seemed a bit wet in the flickering light from the fireplace. For a couple of tense moments Allan's fingers were matted with hers like vines and his body-weight rested on the side which was facing her as if he was about to pull her closer. Then he relaxed, squeezed her hand tighter and broke the gaze, leaving Griet's heart to thud wildly against her own wishes. Her eyes trailed along the distinct profile of this man who was so small yet suddenly took up so much of her world, and briefly considered the mystery of attraction. In all her years of travel there had never been a place that left her more lost and bewildered than her own heart did during these flashes of intimacy.

In the opposite part of the room another woman's thoughts vaguely echoed Griet's. Marian ogled at the French woman's hand as it moved to cradle Allan's and smiled knowingly to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that their hearts were drawing them towards each other, calling and coaxing as it tugged them away from everything they knew. Love didn't compromise and it refused to be ignored, Marian knew that as well as anyone. She suppressed another smile and looked away. It was sweet. They would no doubt be terrible for each other, enhance the worst of their respective flaws, but it was sweet all the same. Unfortunately it was also unbearable, since it opened Marian to the gaping chasm in her own heart - the lack of that long lost love which continued to call her from across the nations.

The door creaked open and Queen Aliénor entered the room, causing the hushed chattering to instantly fall silent. The crowd watched her in anticipation as she walked slowly across the floor and let her eyes dart around the small space, turning to raise an eyebrow at her councillor Marcel Bizou who was constantly half a step behind her. The lanky man caught her gaze and quickly started to snap at the guards, who scrambled into a hurried salute before they darted off down the corridor. They returned to the room with an overly ornamented chair and a velvet cushion, placing the heavy furniture next to Lady Blanche under harangues of muted curses. The queen planted her bottom upon it with regal nonchalance and waved the guards away. Marcel remained standing behind her left shoulder, his constantly bobbing head hovering over her as he rubbed the gnarled fingers like he was washing them clean after a day out in the fields. Marian found herself staring at them almost hypnotically, the pale joints twisting and turning like snakes in a nest, and forced herself to look away. Everyone except Allan and Griet, who found etiquette to be rather tedious in the long run, had stood up and bowed down in respect when the queen entered, and they now returned to their previous positions.

"So," Griet finally broke the silence in perfect Occitan. She let go of Allan's hand as she took a step into the centre of the room, unconsciously clutching it tightly around a handful of emerald wool from her skirt instead. "How did it fare?"

"In English if you will, my sweet," the queen responded in an overly sugary voice, letting the inappropriate familiarity of Griet's manners towards her slip. It had been left to the queen to meet with Duke Leopold and the German emperor, negotiating her son's ransom for three exhausting hours, and now this congregation was waiting for her to reveal the result. She couldn't work miracles, yet there were not many people in this room that expected any less from her. Griet was one of the few who didn't seem to care much either way.

"How did it fare?" the French girl repeated in English, a sweet smile on her full lips.

"It fared, it fared-- Marcel?" the queen sighed wearily, waving at her councillor. "These people wish to know how it fared. Will you be a sweetheart and do me the honours?"

Marcel cleared his throat. "Indeed my Queen, I am, as always, your humble, most devoted subject. The ransom," he began in a nasal voice, then stopped and coughed. A roll of parchment was lifted from his belt and he unfolded it slowly. "The ransom-- has been determined, in negotiations between the Queen Aliénor of England and Duke Leopold V of Austria, under the supervision of his Excellency the Holy German-Roman emperor Henry VI, to be set to 30 000--"

"30 000! 30 000 shilling?!" Luke exclaimed as a collective gasp went through the room.

"Pounds of course," Marcel sneered, annoyed at the interruption, "600 000 shilling, or indeed 7 200 000 pence. I'm afraid I cannot count it in eggs or whatever peasants use. His Majesty," he continued slowly, seemingly unconcerned with the shock his words had caused, "will be moved to Trifles Castle to be held in confinement there, during which he will be receiving all the comforts suitable for his status, until such time the debt is considered repaid by His Lordship Duke Leopold—"

"That is quite enough Marcel," the queen snapped.

"Of course, your Excellency." The parchment was rolled into a tight cylinder anew and tucked back into its leather container with disturbing meticulousness.

"30 000!" King Richard burst out indignantly as Marcel returned to his usual stern silence. "Mother! I thought you planned to negotiate my release, not my ruin!"

"Oh really, my dear, what did you expect? That is your price – the price of England. You should be pleased that it is so high." King Richard murmured an oath beneath his breath. "Come now," the queen continued coaxing, "you wouldn't like to be bought cheap, would you my darling? Indeed, anything below 20- 25 000 pounds would have been nothing less than an insolence."

"An insult I could have lived with, mother," King Richard murmured.

"But where will we get 30—30 000!" Luke suddenly asked in disbelief, turning to no one in particular. He was usually quiet faced with the high and mighty, but the shock had won precedence over his coyness. "That is—so much! So much money!"

"It is roughly what my son's Holy war has cost already," the queen stated in bitter acceptance. "I am sorry my sweet," she turned to Richard with a sympathetic look, "mummy did her best, but God knows good intentions are not always quite enough. I have myself been imprisoned for periods of my life, as you well know, and it may feel like death, yet it is not. This trial can, and will, be overcome. We will have to stay strong and raise the money somehow."

Marian had gone pale as she listened to the news. She could almost feel the colours escaping her cheeks as her eyes were fixed on the queen in dread. Her jaw had fallen open into a loose 'o' which remained as she managed to breathe out "Take the money from where?".

"England my dear, where else?" the queen responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"But—surely there is no room for more taxes!? The people are already staving!"

"The lords will have to pay as well, this is no class matter," King Richard interposed. "It is a matter of England. We are England, is that not what your handsome Robin Hood claims? England must be saved!"

Marian's stomach ached. She felt woozy and faint as her eyes were drawn towards Griet and Allan's hands again, the longing in her chest growing into a torrent of titanium white panic. Their hands hung in solitude as the brush of open tenderness had passed, but in Marian's mind they still had each other while she stood alone. Now it seemed that the return to England wasn't even something she could expect any time soon. It would take ages to drain 30 000 from England's strained resources, time that would break the country and leave it easy pray to men like Prince John and Sheriff Vaysey. Time when she would be left imprisoned with the king, tossed from one castle to another with no power over her life. She still had no power at all!

"This will kill England!" she hissed in sheer desperation, trying to get her point of view across to the aloof high nobility. Her hands were clutched into two small fists, her knuckles whitening and the long nails digging into her palms.

"Well, in my mother's words, what did you expect, Lady Marian?" King Richard frowned. "The country needs me and I need the money! There must be taxes. There must be money."

"So, basically," Allan interrupted the budding argument, "if we raise the money then England will fall, and if we don't raise the money then England will fall?" Marian gave him a tired nod across the room. "Oh brilliant," he mumbled grudgingly. "I'm definitely moving to France."

"Allan!" Griet burst out. "Such sacrifice!"

The joke got a swift smile from the trickster, but his attention was once again set on Marian. The fallen noblewoman looked so small and vulnerable with her shoulders slumped in dejection and her skin dangerously pale, that she seemed bereft of all her usual poise. Allan had that look, Griet pondered while she watched him watching the noblewoman. That very special look he had when he was finding a shortcut, any backdoor to get out of a sticky situation. His life was one of fast escapes. He would try to persuade iron chains to yield to the slickness of his tongue rather than admit that he was stuck. Right now he was getting his mind around these new facts and saw the despair they ignited in Marian's eyes. He wouldn't have been Allan if he had simply accepted such a drawn out, tedious and uncomfortable solution. There simply had to be a better one, and with better he meant easier and faster. Then his eyes lit up, glanced over at Count Friedrich who was shuffling a deck of cards, and a triumphant smile won over the frown in his face. In that moment Griet knew with perfect clarity that Allan-A-Dale had a plan.

He could simply leave. That thought had passed through Allan's mind time and again since he came to Dürnstein castle, puzzling him because he didn't know why he hadn't. There were many things in this life that were mysterious to Allan, and it had always been his philosophy to let them remain that way. You didn't go digging through muck just because you didn't know what lay beneath it - chances were you would only find more muck anyway. He knew what he was, and he was not a man who ran around saving people. At least that was who he had always been, or hadn't been for that matter. Lately he wasn't so sure. He seemed to spend an awful lot of energy doing things that seemed completely pointless out of a traditional Allan perspective. For example he didn't really gain anything from randomly gallivanting between the heavy walls of an Austrian castle, in a vain attempt to save England. Long, looming shadows and round-faced servant maids passed him with the same nonchalance as he made his way down another corridor, his body hunched and shivering beneath the blue cloak. He could simply leave, but instead he was digging himself in deeper.

With a sigh Allan stopped in front of a narrow door and lifted his fist to knock on it before he pushed it open. It was a good plan, and he was here now. He might as well execute it, even if it made little sense to go through such efforts for a king that he didn't truly care about.

The count and the duke were already in the room as he entered. It was a small space, the ceiling low and the walls hung with miscoloured tapestries of old-fashioned hunting scenes. Because it was small it was also easy to heat up, and the comfortable interior made Allan think that the duke used this room rather a lot for small, private gatherings.

"Ah, Allan,_ willkommen_," Friedrich burst out. "You know of course, Duke Leopold," he nodded at the fat man who sat pressed down between the round table and a predominantly rust red tapestry. "The final gentleman is the emperor's trusted friend, Landgraf Stephan."

Allan watched Stephan sceptically, nodding a greeting to the tall man who reminded vaguely of an old horse. His hair was a grizzled black mane that draped down on both sides of a long and narrow face, his sagging skin melting his features into a constant air of tragedy.

The door creaked open and Allan felt something stroke against his back, a warm breath brushing by his neck in a muffled 'hello'. His heart pounded in his ears as Griet continued into the room, her hips swaying seductively and her soft face split by a brilliant smile. She threw out her hands and gave the assembled men a flamboyant curtsey. Not for the first time Allan cursed that the queen had insisted on presenting Griet as his damned sister. He may not be a moral man, but he didn't particularly like the caste gossip having his relation to Griet suspected to be somewhat incestuous.

"Well, gentlemen," Griet exclaimed. "It seems we are all assembled. Who, I wonder, of you fine men need a good luck charm for this harmless game of cards? How about the duke? It is my experience that status and money often win, in life as well as games, and I would like to be on the winning team." Allan felt his stomach jolt when Griet caught Duke Leopold's eyes and moved over to plant herself by his side, his leering gaze walking hungrily over her curves and her smile as unconcerned as ever. He washed the discontent of his face and forced a smile, taking the chair opposite the duke. This was all according to plan. Griet was just playing her role.

The vague idea - which Allan proudly called his 'plan' - had its foundation in two separate facts. The first was Count Friedrich's fondness for gambling, a vice which he shared with Duke Leo. A gambler as refined as the count would know all there is to know about games, knew what won them and what lost them, and more importantly how bad or good luck you could have without being overly suspicious. The other fact was Allan's own profession, as well as Griet's. They were essentially con artists. What could a gambler and two swindlers achieve, when they put their minds at work, if not a scheme so waterproof that the duke wouldn't know what had hit him? As plans go it had more holes than a Swiss cheese, but that was a general rule which applied to most of Allan's plans.

Count Friedrich shuffled the cards and caught Allan's eyes with a faint nod. He had been surprisingly easy to persuade, but apart from him Allan had kept his dubious scheme to himself. Even Griet had been left out to begin with, but the young woman was practically impossible to hide anything from.

Allan realized that he was staring at her again and shook his head to disperse the thoughts. The game was on around the polished table. He had more important things to think about than—well—sex. He would still not use the dreaded l-word. 'Love' had always appeared to Allan to be much worse than most curses, and twice as deadly as any insult.

The count had dealt the cards and Griet was already pouring wine into the duke's cup, filling it up after every sip he took. She had pressed her chest against him and glanced at the cards, distracting the fat man so that he hardly watched the game.

The count won the first round, hardly surprising since Allan didn't quite know the rules in a fair round, Landsgraf Stephan was a fool and the duke wasn't paying much attention at all. It would be easier once the duke felt secure, Allan mused - that was the importance of these early rounds. They needed to set up the right mood around the table, making the duke keep playing as the stakes rose. He sighed and shuffled the cards, dealing out round two with a warning glance at Count Friedrich who lighted up with triumph when he saw his hand. With a miserable grunt the count folded and turned down his two of dames in order to let Duke Leopold win. You could almost see his hands tremble in reluctance.

After that the duke's luck improved. He won a couple of rounds until the table before him was swimming with copper coins. It was no great fortune but the winnings, in addition to Griet's attention and the vast amounts of wine, made him increasingly cocky. Dusk had fallen when the stakes were raised to more abstract sums of money, that is - they were too high to be carried around.

By midnight Allan had lost at least five times as much cash as he had owned in his entire life as well as an inexistent summer lodge in Herefordshire. Landsgraf Stephan and the duke, who wasn't part of the plan, had won some moderate amounts, but once the duke's initial 'luck' levelled out, the greatest success had gone to the count. Of course it wasn't talent as much as luck, in addition to Allan and Griet's occasional swindling, which won and lost the rounds. In the midst of night the crop, or rather the essence of Allan's plan, was finally ripe enough to be plucked.

Griet was not known to be coy or proper. Her attentions towards the duke were thus rather overplayed, or at least Allan considered them so. The duke's hands had been moving up and down her curves and during the evening her ankle long skirt had somehow been lifted up above her knee. It revealed a decidedly improper cleft of white skin between her stocking and the hem of her dress. Allan was staring at it almost hypnotically, thinking of little less than how much he wanted to trail a finger along the curve of her knee, when Griet suddenly moved a hand to tug the cloth. The dress draped down and Allan lifted his eyes with the look of a chastised dog, knowing he had done something wrong but not truly regretting it. She cocked her eyebrow at him and he grinned in response, reluctantly turning his attention back to the game.

"Ah," Count Friedrich yawned as another round ended with some more coins shuffled his way. "It has been a—nice game. But now I will put down my cards I think."

"End it!?" Griet exclaimed, widening her round eyes. The duke gave her a drunken look, his eyes out of focus and his grin sheepish. The man was well and truly marinated. "But we have hardly started yet!Why do we even play, if the winnings are of little or no consequence to the players? Shouldn't a true game give true winnings? Doesn't a risk need to hurt to be a risk at all? I may be wrong, but shouldn't we raise the stakes?"

"Wha' do you mean '_no consequence'_?" Allan burst out indignantly. "I'm nearly ruined 'ere!" Griet suppressed a smile, amused by the thought of Allan being ruined after betting a house he didn't even own, and the count gave her a warning look. "My sis' right though," Allan continued. "We can't stop now, I need my house back!"

"You have nothing left to bet, Mister Allan," Count Fredrick scoffed.

"Bu' I do! I 'ave-- I 'ave my main house, right? I can bet that! Yeah, tis in Rochsdale. Lovely place, innit, Griet?"

"Lovely," Griet agreed. Of course Allan didn't have any house in Rochdale, but there was a place called Rochdale and it had houses in it. For a con artist that was quite enough.

"Huh. A place in Rochdale. Hm," Count Fredrick pretended to ponder the bet. "In England, yes? It is a crude place, a dark corner of the world. Still, I am a generous man. I suppose—I suppose I could consider it. At least if the duke is willing to bet something that I truly want."

"I will not bet Dürnstein castle! It has been in my family for generations," Duke Leopold called out in a slurry voice, although his interest was notably sparked. He was a greedy man after all, and the stakes were already very high.

"Not Dürnstein!" the count snorted.

"What then?" Duke Leopold was notably suspicious now. His grip around Griet had become looser, as if his mind was drifting from her, and his concentration was focused on the count.

"Well, the king, of course," Fredrick responded nonchalantly. "His release for everything I have won today, and," he took a deep sigh, mentally strengthening himself for the next part, "and-- and as a special treat, I will throw in the administrative region of_ Niederbayern. _You have been sniffing around that border like a dog, duke. This is your chance, and may I add, it is the only chance you will ever have to get your hands on it."

It was a bait too big, too juicy, too tempting to ignore. Niederbayern was a big region, a significant bet. Yet then again, so was the king. The playful atmosphere around the table had changed within a heartbeat, turned wary and threatening. Duke Leopold was drunk on greed, wine and Griet's female charms, yet the politician in him was feeling cornered. He did no like where this was going, yet it kept calling him.

"Sweet," Allan's murmur broke the silence, and the duke turned to him.

"Sweet for you," he sneered in open contempt. "Too sweet! Count Fredrick, do you expect me to put a bet like _this _when Mister Allan has betted nothing but some petty British shed?! This is the king of England we are talking about!"

"Then Allan is out," the count stated with a shrug.

"Wha'!? No!" Allan exclaimed before he remembered that the entire game was a scam, and that the count was on his team. He didn't actually have a chance of winning anything at all, least of all a big chunk of Bavaria.

"Actually I agree," Duke Leopold said thoughtfully. "It is not enough. This is just land, and if Allan withdraws from the game my potential winnings are even smaller. What you ask of me is something else. It is politics. It cannot be measured in wealth. The winnings must be bigger. Allan needs to bet something—interesting, something—unique! Or there will be no game."

Count Fredrick glanced at Allan who shrugged uneasily. They had not expected this. Like a ship floats off course and finds itself on uncharted waters, Allan's best laid plans were suddenly utterly useless. Had the count known Allan better, he would have expected something like this to happen. Allan did not have a talent for forward planning. His usual approach was to take the first step and hope things worked themselves out as he went along, not caring much about unwanted consequences. In his mind his plans were always straight, and thus he did not waste time to ponder potential turns or bumps before he literally stumbled right over them. They had imagined a drunk and overly confident duke to be pretty easily convinced, but it seemed that he was more cautious than they had expected.

"Then bet me!"

The four men turned to Griet with different expressions of surprise. The count seemed shocked but impressed while Allan had an oddly tortured expression as he tried to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach. He glanced over at Landsgraf Stephan and realized that the horse-like man looked sceptical, to say the least, but the duke didn't seem to have any such considerations. His interest was notably sparked, his suspicions suddenly weak faced with this possibility of imminent pleasure.

"What do you mean 'bet' you?" the duke asked fascinated.

"Yeah!" Allan exclaimed. "Wha' do you mean _bet_ you! Not being funny but you're not mine to bet!"

"Do not be such a fool, brother mine," Griet smiled and met Allan's uncomfortable gaze in infinite innocence. "You always say you have no money to pay my dowry, and now you have nothing at all. You may consider yourself British, but I grew up in France. Where I come from it is perfectly accepted for rich men to have—shall we call it a legal _maîtresse_. A concubine if you wish. Oh, do not look so shocked gentlemen! It is in the line of finest French customs, by many of my peers considered considerably less barbaric than marriage. Less—stifling."

"A _maîtresse_?" the duke slurred, looking eagerly at Allan. "Now, I do think this is a French custom that I could get used to! Well? Will you bet your sister?"

"Yeah, well," Allan murmured. "If that is what Griet wants…"

"I do want it."

"A'right then," Allan swallowed and tried to avoid Griet's eyes. There was a twinkle in them that he didn't quite like, an air of triumph which made him think that he had lost some ground in the silent war between them. She would think that he_ cared _for her now. Of course, in a way he did care for her, but he didn't want her to know that. His pride would suffer terribly if she saw how much he hated this turn of events. It didn't even matter that he knew that they would win, and thus not really risk losing her to the duke at all. Just the thought of her being—_on the table_, so to speak, like some—some _prize_! He shuddered and tried to get a grip, fighting the violent discomfort he sensed, and forced a smile. "I guess I could," he continued drawling. "Mind you, you will 'ave to make your bet official, duke. Not being funny or anything, but I don't bloody trust you, mate."

Duke Leopold flinched, suddenly remembering how high the stakes really were. Then Griet's warm weight against his body and the wine clouding his head won over reason. He waved at a servant who came back with ink and a piece of parchment and scrambled down a rather sloppy document, stating the king's release. Finally he sealed it, had Stephan officially sign and validate it, and tossed it to the middle of the round table. This had been the only reason as to why they had invited Stephan in the first place, a nice touch which could be attributed to the count. They needed someone here whose word the emperor trusted.

"There. The king's release, black on white. Deal the cards Griet." The duke planted a kiss on Griet's neck, grabbing her possessively around the waist, as she leaned forward and started to set up another round. Her eyes locked into Allan and she smiled triumphantly and, he thought, a bit flirtatiously when he lifted his hand. It was a bad one so he quickly flipped the cards, changing them for the extras he had hidden under his blue cloak. It was almost funny that he would win back the king with a simple tavern trickery.

Less than an hour later, as they ran through the corridors under muffled laughter, Allan could hardly believe how easy that it had been. The parchment with the king's release was hugged tightly in Count Friedrich's hand and Allan's own fingers were closed around Griet's wrist, pulling her with him. He could feel her pulse fluttering faintly against his fingers and found it very hard to focus on much else.

As they closed in on Marian and the king's chamber Griet suddenly stopped, leaving the count to continue dashing ahead without them. She backed into a dark corner by a door which must lead to one of the empty guest chambers, tugging Allan towards her so hard that he lost balance and almost stumbled ungracefully into the wall. She was winded and blushing, her back against the door and her blue eyes wide in euphoria. Slowly she sneaked her hands around Allan's neck an ached her back slightly, a teasing twinkle in her gaze, and Allan's mouth went dry.

"That was amazing!" she breathed, her chest heaving in fast breaths, a wide smile splitting the round face. "It was, wasn't it? We played him like a fiddle!"

Allan nodded dumbly, trying to regain his senses, but the tongue felt swollen in his mouth and everything was spinning. He put his palms on Griet's back, feeling her heat through the cloth, and swallowed. "Amazing," Allan murmured. "Though," he swallowed again, "though you didn't need to, y'know-- _fawn_ all o'er 'im like that, like."

Griet's full lips curled into a smile, a vibration echoing through her body as Allan's slurry words reached her ears. It was all she needed, as much of an admission as she could ever hope for. _He is jealous_. Her smile widened as the surge of excitement tugged her features. Allan may fear intimacy but Griet never shied away from a challenge.

Allan's world moved in slow-motion as Griet laughed hoarsely and drew his face to hers, her lips crashing against his in a kiss as deep as the elongated shadows of the corridor. Allan knew that the castle must be cold still, colder even than it had been before, but somehow the cloak's heat felt superfluous and the weight on his shoulder's merely a nuisance. Then as the kiss lingered on, as he pulled her closer and she sighed contently, as her hair fell out of its braided bud and tickled his neck, as his heart beat so fast that he thought it may stop all together, then Allan suddenly knew. It was not the insight that he loved _her_ that revealed itself to him, because in a way he had known that from the start and still wasn't prepared to admit it. Instead he thought about Marian, who he wished to protect and help when the king's ransom shattered her world like glass. He thought about Luke who somehow managed to drag Allan across Europe in a stupid fit of sentimentality, and about Will and Djaq, who he really quite-- missed. Not that he had gone _soft _or anything, you just got used to having people around, that's all. All these thoughts wandered though Allan's mind while he fought against the dangerous magic that Griet's presence held over him. Somehow, in the world between her soft lips which pulled him in and the rogue's self-preservation which screamed at him to run away, Allan suddenly realized that he knew perfectly well why he had done all these things.

_I never wanted to leave because I actually care_, he thought beneath the enchantment on the French kiss. _Blimey, you didn't see that one coming Allan-A-Dale, you daft old fool._

Then Allan moved to plant a kiss on his beloved's neck, a shy touch of lips upon sensitive skin which Griet responded to with a light shiver. She laughed out loud as his stubble tickled her, and in that moment Allan decided that it didn't matter why he kept acting against his natural instincts. A conscience is a sticky thing, he mused, once woken it refused to be ignored in spite of his very best efforts to do so. Yet a conscience seemed a small price to pay for the woman in his arms and the fact that returning to England suddenly felt like coming back home. It was _nice_ to have people to miss – like longing was a sensation far less lonely than not having something to long for. Perhaps you couldn't truly win unless the stakes were high and you dared to risk something of substance.

As these thoughts wandered through Allan's increasingly intoxicated mind, the door to the king's chamber creaked open down the corridor, and a crumpled parchment changed hands. King Richard's surprise echoed from wall to wall and stirred Marian in her bed, causing the noblewoman to make her way to the king's chamber with a frown on her face. As she read through the scratchy document she threw her arms around Count Friedrich's shoulders in joy and wept. Finally every sorrow broke through Marian's dam of self-control and was pored onto the count's velvet vest in jerky sobs of sheer relief.

Lady Marian smiled and smiled though the tears when it occurred to her that she wasn't merely going home. She was rising from the dead, and she didn't dare to consider the possibility that Robin had moved on. That was not the way fairy tales went. Darkness was defeated, lovers reunited in a kiss. It was the way it was supposed to happen. In the damp night of a slowly budding Austrian spring, as the first yellow flowers broke through the snow like beaming suns, Marian believed. She believed that even the winter of her own life was coming to an end, and the sensation was so strong that she felt herself wake up, as if she had been hibernating ever since the shipwreck. She believed and she trusted in the love and the friendship that the bitterness of her youth had made her so guarded against. Stronger and more mature she didn't care if her tears seemed vulnerable and her chest lay wide open. What did she care if her heart was on display when it finally appeared to be beating again?

Three hearts pounded between Dürnstein castle walls as they let go of the shackles that held them and turned their faces north. Griet de Sael was venturing into the country of her childhood, side by side with a man who always used to walk alone or run away, and - even though it had been said before - Lady Marian Fitzwalter was finally coming home.

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**NEXT: It has been speculated that Robin gets a bit of a surprise.**


	26. Chapter 25: Memories

Well dear readers, here comes chapter 25. It's sort of a angsty happy-chapter lol. wow I'm so bad at writing good news...

**Jess:** lol, the surprise to Robin isn't much of a surprise to you people. He will finally get some good news, he poor sod lol. And now reunion is only... a couple of chapters away (it's likely to be in chapter 28)  
**QuieraStrawberry:** Glad I made your day lol. Thanx for the comment :-  
**Burnsier:** Glad you liked the chapter :D Marian is going home, just one more chapter for her in Germany.  
**Ana:** lol, I thought the "happiness" was a bit sappy, but you people like sappy, right? ;) I wanted to take Marian on a journey in this fic, so she will come back to England less guarded and stubbornly independent (without letting go of her independence, just softening it). And Allan is indeed a genius. I love him :D  
**Annie:** Of course Robin hasn't moved on. ;) We all know that but Marian don't.  
**Chanel:** Glad you liked it and tnx for the comment :)  
**Karmini:** Aw you're such a darling to take out the rolling pin for me. See you on the plane!  
**ignorance-is-bliss:** aw I'm glad you're exited and hope you like this. :)  
**Dina:** wow, I actually managed to write something uplifting? lol, I must be getting old...  
**Electra:** thnx for the comments, and here comes tha chapter when Robin finally finds out the truth about Marian!! :D

xxxTrixxx

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**Chapter 25: Memories**

_-In which there may be a somewhat excessive use of italics. Ha! You all thought I would write something interesting here, didn't you?_

--

_  
"Robin," Carter said. "There is something you should know about Marian." _

In the midst of the Sherwood mire Robin found himself staring blindly, hearing nothing but the surge of blood against his eardrums. Carter's voice was set on repeat in his mind, but the sentiment seemed incomprehensible like a tune in which he failed to find the beat. There are only so many impressions a human can perceive. Once reality exceeds the limits of the senses what is left is nothing but chaos. The intensity of every sensation which roamed through Robin's worn-out body made him go numb, unable to truly comprehend anything at all. He thought he felt joy and fear and guilt, hope and relief, shock and disbelief, yet the sum of all colours mixed together is not rich and vibrant, but rather a grubby brown mess. He sensed little of the night air which chilled his skin and was only vaguely aware of the fact that Carter still spoke. His words could have been any foreign tongue, a dogs barking or a howling wind. They made as much sense as leaves rustling.

The echo of the news buzzed in Robin's head, trying to find foothold on the slippery slope of experience. Marian was dead. He _knew_ that she was dead, and once people were dead they stayed dead. He knew that as well. That Marian might not be dead defied everything Robin had ever known, and above all it was far too dangerous to dare believe in. Yet Carter had said it, and Robin also knew that Carter was a man of his word.

_"Robin," he said. "There is something you should know about Marian."_

_Two heartbeats of silence to let the words sink in, then a deep breath. "She survived the shipwreck, Robin. Our paths crossed in Austria, and—she may well be there still, in the company of the king."  
_  
She survived the shipwreck. She survived. Carter said so.

_"Robin, there is something you should know about Marian."_

"Robin-- Robin!"

The repeated sound of his own name caused Robin to snap from the memory, forcing himself to focus on Carter. The crusader kept calling him like you call a dog in training, yelling his name over and over again in a commanding tone of voice.

"What?" Robin said dumbly, desperately trying to regain control over his own wayward mind. The world seemed so unreal - the colours were too sharp, the shadows seemed too deep – and his body was not his body. He couldn't reach out and reality didn't quite penetrate his skin. Every focused thought felt like running through water, and it made him exhausted.

"Robin my friend, are you alright?" Carter asked worriedly.

"Marian survived," Robin repeated from the memory which still played in the background of his head. "She survived the shipwreck."

"Yes Robin," Carter responded slowly. "She was washed ashore. Have you been listening to anything that I have been telling you? The journey? The ambush? Dürnstein?"

Robin stared at Carter. "Isn't Dürnstein in Austria?" he heard himself ask.

"Yes, it is in Austria. It is where the king is imprisoned - Robin! We have talked about this before!"

Robin frowned and nodded. They had been talking about that, sometime before his world was torn to shreds. With a deep sigh he formed the first sensible thought he had managed to put together since Carter had told him about Marian, finally acknowledging that he needed time to collect his thoughts.

For a moment the idea that Marian was alive made Robin's mouth tug into a grin. Then the smile died away, was knocked back by the sheer incomprehensibility of it all timed with the fact that she simply wasn't here. His smile rose and sunk like waves surging against a beach, wavering back and forth as if he couldn't decide on a single reaction to match every thought. How did a simple man react to a miracle? In every dream he'd ever had since she disappeared he had found himself by her side and in every dream he had cried from relief and thanked God for his mercy. Yet from every single dream he had eventually awoken to a grim and solitary reality, shedding muffled tears over having to lose her anew. This was a dream but he did not wake up. How could he possibly dare believe in this? What if it turned out to be a scam?

Much's mouth was a gaping black hole in the flickering light, and Robin focused on the familiar expression of wonder, giving him a reassuring smile. That reassurance was a lie which served a purpose. When a leader seemed confident then his men felt secure, no matter what emotions raged beneath the grin - that was a knowledge which had led armies into wars they should have fled. What feelings you display are sometimes more important than what you truly feel, and in this moment Robin could see that his weak smile calmed Much, as it had done so many times before.

"Give me a moment," he said out loud. "I need—I need a moment on my own." His voice was hoarse with emotion yet oddly hollow and his body felt impossibly heavy as he stood up. He noted that his flesh trembled and tingled, but was surprised to find that his limbs still answered to his command, even though they felt so far away. "I need to think," he finished before he took some sluggish steps into the swamp.

--

No one had cared to rebuild it. In the collective depression people lacked the initiative to do much more than record the mess they lived in, and because of that Knighton Hall was nothing but a black skeleton. When something burned in Nottinghamshire these days it stayed burned.

Marian's old home stood before Robin like a sad monument to a time that was long gone, as if all that remained of his youth was this cage of ashes. He hadn't even known that this was where his feet had carried him until the trees cleared and the sight of the burned manor was in plain sight. The sight felt like a massive blow against Robin's stomach, causing him to recoil and turn abruptly to leave. Yet there was a magnetism to the place, and when he stood with his back to Knighton Hall he could feel it tug him back. It was like a siren's song, coaxing as it lured him with a beauty that was dangerous but impossible to resist. Once upon a time Marian lived here. Before everything went wrong, when they still had a chance to fix things. Back when there was hope.

Yet there was hope again wasn't there? Robin swallowed hard and shut his eyes to regain balance.

_Breathe. Stay focused. Think.  
_  
He had been running, falling, rising and slipping through the forest, the panicked flight of a hunted deer, only his hunter was one he could not escape. There were simply too many thoughts to handle at once. They suffocated him so he fled from them, and then he suddenly found himself here. 'Found himself' was indeed the correct phrase; his mind had been trailing behind since he escaped from the campsite, and didn't quite catch up with him until he stopped dead by the small ditch which separated Knighton Hall from the wild forest. Until this day he had avoided the burnt down ruins, walked in circles around them rather that taking the short road straight through. It hurt too much to stand faced with the horrors of the past when the present was such a handful in itself. Now his feet had walked aimlessly into a place where his conscious mind had feared to go astray, and like so much else during this day, he found the sensation quite overwhelming.

This was the first place he had disappointed her, and now Robin was hit by a pang of regret as he remembered how he had come to tell her about leaving for the Holy Land. It was so many years ago that the memory was filled with holes, but he could still see her perfectly clear before him as she had been then - her young face beaming with a joy which his news suffocated like a flame deprived of air. He had expected her to support him, to sparkle with pride over her courageous darling who rode so valiantly into a holy war. Instead she had turned to hide her shattered heart, and he had been left bewildered and angry – a young man intoxicated with images of who he wished to be, and furious that she failed to see it his way. He had dashed off across nations to prove himself, with all the folly a spoiled youth can possess, and that ignorance had cost him dearly.

As Marian's proclaimed lover he should have protected her, not simply cajoled her and left in a mist of flowery phrases and empty vows, Robin scolded himself in a wave of guilt. He had failed her over and over again - like a red thread following them through the years. From leaving her to go to war, to leaving her in the castle, to leaving her to find her own way back to England after being shipwrecked. There always seemed to be more words than actions in his love, as if mere promises could fill the void his absence left behind. What kind of man was he who vainly tried to save nations rather than looking after his own?!

_I should have tried harder to find her. _

The anguish washed over Robin and he gave out a muffled moan into the early morning hour. All those months Marian had been left on her own made him feel nauseous - a lump in his throat which couldn't be swallowed down or spat out. When it came to Marian, Robin found it easy to find faults in himself. In her presence – even if it only existed in his thoughts - his usual cockiness was like a veneer, a glossy surface to cover up how uncertain he always felt about her wild heart. It was hard to blame her now that she was absent, so he took everything upon himself instead. Perhaps it was a burden heavy to carry, but guilt is not an emotion which is easily shed once it has established itself. Who knew what horrors Marian had faced on her solitary journey? Her short life had seen too many trials as it was, fought far too many battles on her own, and now it seemed she might be struggling still.

While his mind had strayed, so had Robin's feet moved him until it was in the middle of the razed building. Ash now covered the tip of his boot and he stared at it as if entranced, following a trail of sand until his eyes met a tiny green sprout. In the back of his head he recalled something that Locksley's gamekeeper had told him about, back when Robin had been a lad and eager on all things that had to do with the mysterious Sherwood Forest. There had been a small forest fire by Clun and the next year every piece of black soil had been swimming with flowers, puzzling to Robin but no surprise to the experienced keeper.

_"How can they grow when everything is dead?" Young Robin asked bewildered, watching the quilt of wildflowers and noting that Marian's favourite was amongst them. Not that he cared about stupid flowers - or girls for that matter._

_"They grow _because _everything is dead, lad," the gamekeeper responded calmly. "One way or another life always wins in the forest."_

_"But why is that?"_

_The gamekeeper shrugged and put a piece of resin in his nearly toothless mouth, rolling his jaw and sucking on his lips as he chewed on it. "It just is," he stated. "She got her own ways, Lady Sherwood. Like all womenfolk." _

Marian certainly had _her_ ways - that was for sure, Robin mused as the distant memory tugged his lips into a crooked smile in spite of the dire setting. Then, in the midst of the destruction, he finally realized that just like the flowers eventually claimed the ash, Marian had risen from the dead - sprouting new life where there was none.

_She is not dead. There is a chance. Oh my Lord she might actually not be dead! _

He felt his heart pound, his skin tingle as if charged with electricity - he was sweating and freezing at the same time, seemingly feverish or intoxicated, yet feeling more sober than he had for ages. When the chaos of the news died down into a faint trembling, the joy which they had spurred on sent saplings of ecstasy throughout Robin's body. For the first time in months there was hope, a sensation so rare these days that he almost didn't recognise it at first.

"Alive," he said out loud, as if saying the words would make them less fantastic. "My Marian is alive!"

Possibly, maybe even _probably _alive and well in Germany, or Austria, or perhaps even on her way back here. She may be far away but while there was life there was a way to put things right. Death he could not conquer, but there was very little else in life which Robin Hood was willing to surrender to. Distances could be overcome. If Marian had moved on without him, if she was angry or disappointed, then he could still sway her back to his side. He new all her ways. He even knew that her favourite flower was a tough blue wild flower, prosperous in layers of ash as well as the harsh competition of a blooming meadow.

_Just like Marian. _

In spite of her delicate appearance his lady was a survivor, maybe more so than Robin had ever been. Thus he suppressed the fear and uncertainty, forgot about the guilt, and watched the burnt down mansion anew. This time he grinned, a smile which went from side to side and stretched as if it wished to go further, far beyond the limits of his body. He saw the beautiful memories hidden behind the veil of tragedy, all the happiness this place had brought him long before it was razed. He saw the sprouts in the ash which would grow to dominate it. He saw a past which wasn't lost and a future which didn't beat him down. For a moment he even saw the world as it was for other people, not merely himself and his blinding trials. Then the moment passed and he was devoured by his own obsessions anew, seeing only Marian, feeling only his longing for her which was stronger than any idealism. When she was in his mind everyone else could wait, they had to wait. He didn't see it as choosing her over the world, or England and the king for that matter. In his mind he didn't have to choose, since there would be a way to do it all. There was always a way. He just had to get her back first, and then they could face the struggles together, stronger than before. A force to be reckoned with. There had been times this winter when he had despaired, almost giving up on his own cause because they were so few and so weakened, but now that Marian may be coming back, so did his trust in himself and his gang. He would win against the sheriff and Guy, eventually. One way or another life always won in the forest, didn't it?

'Maybe' wasn't nearly good enough, but it was all Robin had, and thus he put all his trust in it. _Maybe_ they would be together again, and all in all that was a whole lot easier to live with than 'never'. In his mind maybe became a certainty, the insecurity just a matter of form. He couldn't know that Marian was still alive and well, nor could he know that he would find her, yet he felt that he knew both these things as sure as the sun follows the moon.

If Robin had followed where these thoughts were surely leading him, then he would probably have looked back upon this day much like he looked back upon his departure for the Holy War – a foolishness, albeit born from love rather than from youth this time around. He had turned on his heal and begun to stride back towards the forest with eager leaps, his heart pounding wildly in his ears as his mind was focused intensely on one goal. To get Marian back was the only thing that mattered.

"Master Robin!"

Robin flinched and came to a sudden halt, turning to the familiar voice with his eyes wide open. Much rarely called him 'Master Robin' like that anymore. It was an echo from the past, and while he wouldn't have stopped for Much's normal call, 'Robin' or merely 'master', this took him aback enough to get his attention. Much came running, or rather stumbling, or - as a matter of fact - falling, through a shrubbery, his cloak caught in the twigs and his feet snarled into the net of roots.

"Ma-master- ah," he gasped. "Ah! Here you are! I knew I would find you here!"

"You did?" Robin asked coldly. He was already regretting that he had stopped but made his way over to Much anyway, starting to pull him out of the imbroglio with a rather harsh grip around his arm.

"Well," Much panted. "Eh—no. I followed your tracks." Finally free from the entanglement of the bush he began to groom himself, picking twigs off his clothes and brushing the fabric vigorously. Robin thought he reminded of a bird picking feathers with its beak, and folded his arms as he watched him gravely. He did not have time for this! "Anyway," Much continued with a sigh. "Why are you here? I mean, I thought this was a bad place? Like that abandoned barn in Locksley, the haunted one. Remember? When we were children. Of course, the grown-ups just wanted to scare us off, really. I mean there weren't any ghosts." Much gave Robin an eager look, and the outlaw leader instantly realised what his old friend was trying to do. He was hoping that retelling old memories would soothe Robin, as it had done occasionally in the past. It did not work, and Robin _did not_ have time for this.

"Much," he said with an exasperated sigh and placed his palms on his hips. "I have to get back to the camp!"

"What! Why?" Much called out. "You're not- doing anything – are you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Robin responded patiently, "I have packing to do."

"Packing?"

"It is a long way to Austria."

"Austria! Robin, we cannot go to Austria!"

"And that was what you were coming here to say, wasn't it?" Robin smiled in a silky, calm voice, coated with a thin layer of contempt. "'Robin, don't leave!', 'England!', 'The king!', 'Locksley!', 'All will be lost!'" Much looked at Robin with his jaw dropped, and the outlaw leader gave out a mirthless laughter. "What's wrong, Much? Did I steal all your arguments?" he smiled.

"No!" Much responded awkwardly. "No, no I meant to say, you cannot go to Austria because- because you- you will die! You are too thin, Robin, too starved. You have to fatten up first."

"You make me sound like a pig going to the slaughterhouse!"

"If you leave England will be like a pig going to the slaughterhouse!" Much exclaimed. "All will be lost!"

Robin started to laugh and Much blushed, realizing he had walked right into the trap by using the arguments Robin had scorned him for already. But why scorn him for telling the truth?! It wasn't fair!

There was a rustling from the shrubbery which Much had been entangled in and Carter emanated from it, his eyes fixed at Robin's tense figure.

"No slaughterhouse would have a pig as scrawny as you, Robin," Carter said slowly, a faint smile softening the words. "Much is right my friend. You would risk perishing on the way down. Germany is a maze. Not a country but many - many lords with petty power struggles and many bickering neighbours. Your chance of even finding Marian is--"

"A chance," Robin interrupted him in a snappy tone. Carter arriving had suddenly left him outnumbered, and he was starting too feel cornered. "I have a chance to find her. It is enough!"

"It is not enough!" Carter snapped back. "What if Marian is on her way back here?! What if you pass each other on the way? Have you even considered that?! Have you considered anything at all?"

Robin fell back shaking his head angrily, as if he didn't wish to hear this, and avoided Carter's look. "I'm going to find her," he murmured, then continued a bit louder. "You may follow or stay behind, but this is my choice! It's _my_ life! _Mine!_"

"No!" Carter roared so loud that Robin recoiled and stared at him in sheer shock. "No," the crusader repeated a bit softer. "It is not just your life. You may mock Much for using the same old reasons on you, but this is not just your choice Robin. You have a responsibility. Towards England – towards your men."

"You heard Carter," Much said, much softer and less desperate now that he had another person on his side. The vague jealousy he felt towards Carter didn't matter now, all that was important was to make Robin see sense. Much knew Robin well enough to see that the words were beginning to sink in. He tried to shrug them off, looked uncomfortable and trapped as he paced back and forth, unable to stand still because he knew that the unpleasant truth was trying to get a grip on him.

"My men do not own me any more than I own them," Robin stated in a desperate attempt to reason his way out of this.

"They do not own you, but you do have an obligation to them. You have commanded armies, you should know this! Have you forgotten what people say about a commander who abandons the troops?"

"I do not care what people say!"

"Robin," Carter hissed, quickly loosing his patience. "Your men did not sign up to play extras in some adventurous love affair!" He gripped hold of Robin's shoulder and slammed him into a tree, hard enough to shake him but not so badly that he was hurt. When he let go Robin stared at him silently for a while, then his head dropped and he slumped down on the ground. Much and Carter watched him as he buried his head in his palms, rubbing it wearily. Much glanced over at Carter in accusation for using so much force and Carter mouthed a silent excuse, shrugging uneasily. Yet the force did little harm to Robin compared to the truth which had found a way in and now refused to leave him alone.

"That's it then?" he finally asked in a dejected voice, like a child who had just realized something distressing but wanted to be contradicted. He looked up at his two friends in silent despair. "England will have to come first again?"

"It doesn't mean you cannot have Marian, master," Much pointed out and sat down next to his old friend. "You just have to be patient."

Robin nodded sadly and stared silently at the ruins of Knighton Hall as the morning light grew increasingly sharp and gave the fussy shadows contours. He had been here so many mornings, staring up at a room which no longer existed and waiting for Marian's window shutters to be thrown open. There would be a shred of something white as her nightgown flickered past, perhaps a glimpse of her hand or a lock of her hair, but even though she knew that he was there she would tease him and stay almost out of sight. So many times she chastised him for coming at such hours, but in spite of that she started to wake up earlier to meet him before the maid woke. For every morning their meeting, if it could even be called that, was pushed back a bit in time, until first light had to race them to the starting line.

Robin smiled longingly at his eager adolescent self – the boy who waited so impatiently for so very little – and wished he could be that young fool still. Then he shrugged off the nostalgia and stood up so suddenly that Much flinched.

"A new day has dawned, lads," the outlaw leader stated as he aimed an eye at the pale blue sky and woke his gaunt body by stretching his limbs. "You know what that means."

"It's time to move the camp," Much nodded, rose from his sitting position, and placed a comforting palm on Robin's shoulder. To his surprise Robin turned first to him, and then to Carter, with a grateful smile, swift as it flickered across his features, but honest and warm.

While they wandered back to the camp it occurred to Robin that a new day was dawning in more ways than one, and they were walking into it together - forced to take up a fight which was much too big, much too painful and much too risky for all of them. Yet he also realized that Carter had been right – that the time of choosing a different path was long gone. This was a time for war, not a holy war but a necessary one, and ready or not, they would have to fight it.

* * *

_NEXT: Sir Adam has a change of scenery and takes a warm bath, which isn't actually in the chapter but is rumoured to have been very pleasant. _


	27. Chapter 26: Three is a crowd

**Well, here comes chapter 26. It moves the story forward a bit i think.**

**Annie: lol, well happy confetti will have to wait till chapter 28 then...  
Electra: lol, I'm glad my updates make you happy ;)  
Jess: yeah, Robin finally got some news. lol, I actually imagines that happening somewhere in the middle of the fic, not in chapter 26 lol  
Ana Sedai: There is no such thing as too many exclamation marks ;) I'm thrilled that you like my Robin!  
Mizco: ty. yeah i'm pretty happy he knows too. it some a looong time to get there lol  
Burnsier: It was actually really tricky to get all Robin's different thoughts and possible reactions into one chapter... Thee is just so much a man can feel in such a situation, I imagine it will just be chaos.  
Moonlightfaery: Aye, it is complicated lol. And long. I'm always humble in front of people who get through the huge amount of chapters lol. Ty for the comment and glas you like it :D  
Chanel: Aww ty! I'm trying to get inside Robin's head the best i can ;) He's a comlicated man, or perhaps I'm just a complicated writer lol**

**thanx for all the comments!! Especially thanx to Bianca, who isn't caught up with this yet, but the comments she has written really warms my heart :love: Especially coming from a writer whom i respect.  
**

**xxxTrixxx**

* * *

**Chapter 26: Three is a crowd**

_- In which Guy of Gisbourne is a frustrated man and Much isn't allowed to sing._

When Robin, Much and Carter came back to the camp it was to find Little John on his own, with most of the gear already packed into different sacks and a grim expression in the large man's face.

"John?" Robin asked and gave the outlaw a quizzical look. "Where is Adam?"

"Gone," Little John grunted.

"Gone?" Much exclaimed. "What do you mean gone? Gone as in 'gone to fetch the sheriff' or gone as in 'gone to buy more ale' or--?"

"Just gone," John stressed annoyed.

"Ah. Gone as in 'gone with the wind'. Well, I for one never trusted him." Much put his hands on his hips and tried to look authoritative with very limited success. "Too slick for my taste."

"That hardly matters now, Much," Robin pointed out and walked up to give Little John a thump on his shoulder. "Well done with the packing, John. We're all set to leave. Lads! We divide the packs between us--"

"What about my horse?" Carter asked. "We can pack him up. Less to carry - means we can move faster and not tire as fast."

"We move better without him," Robin shook his head. "We're heading east, to the caves. The terrain is rough but it is as close to Nottingham as we can get yet remain safe. Set the animal free and finish the packing."

As the last lingering details were finished off in the camp, Robin's head filled up by the rational - albeit notoriously overconfident and flippant in the face of danger - voice of the rebellion. The people would have to be warned. Food needed to be stocked and escape routs secured. They needed new recruits as well, however that could be brought about, starved and tattered as they were with no permanent camp and the forest full of guards. Wearily Robin twisted his lips into a wry smile as he remembered the day he had decided to take to the forest and the first men he had roused for his cause. How little he had known then of what he had doomed himself to, how high the price would be and how very small the rewards. Now he would have to try and use his charisma to persuade others to sacrifice themselves for it as well, for the future of a nation and a king which they were never likely to meet. He had to set their expectations high even though he knew they might find themselves disillusioned, as he himself had when he first was cajoled into war by the propaganda of the great Crusade. Propaganda was only that - a charming lie which you told yourself after being nicely guided in the right direction by people who burned with conviction. In truth he knew nothing about what all this would amount to. He just knew that it was something he had to do, and people would follow as they always did - even though the path he led them on might end abruptly in a precipice.

Robin took a deep breath and held it for a while before he released it into a sigh, then turned right around and started to pick up his share of the baggage from the forest floor with the determination of a man with a purpose. These things had to be done, because the alternative was worse. He could not let men like Vaysey steer this country in whatever direction suited them best. Apathy like that could damn a nation – that was a truth which he still believed in with the passion of a less jaded individual.

"Come on lads," he ordered in a perky tone which sounded alien to his own ears. "No time to waste. We got things to do and promises to keep—"

"And miles to go before we sleep," Much continued, as if this false enthusiasm would somehow reverberate into his soul and make the feeling honest. "You know, I think I'm feeling a song coming on."

"No!" Robin called out in an echo from a different time, causing Much to smile just because the shared memory was such a pleasant one. It belonged to a time long before the world spun out of control - when he had thought he was at the end of his perilous journey rather than in the beginning of it. "No song!" Robin continued. "Absolutely _no_ song!"

--

"Oh, this is good Gisbourne, this is good!!"

Sheriff Vaysey paced back and forth in his study, his steps muffled by the carpet and his arms gesturing wildly in glee.

"This is even better than I planned!" he exclaimed and gave Sir Guy a smile which showed off his golden tooth. It was just like the sheriff to turn a loss into an advantage, using his poor dental hygiene as a reason to show off his affluence. Guy scowled and forced himself not to stare at the glimmering prosthesis with bits of food wedged on both sides.

"What do you mean? The king is still alive," he snarled. "Queen Aliénor is not known for backing down. The ransom will be paid."

"Oh la-di-da," the sheriff sighed at Gisbourne, taking on a mocking expression of boredom. "The fact of the matter is that it will take _time_, Gizzy! When the king comes out, years from now, we will take care of him. Once the _coup d'état_ is well in hand we will have plenty of spare time for such leisure. A fast and simple assassination, snip-snip and off with his regal head-s. Heh. I'm rather looking forward to it actually, it makes my mouth water," he grinned and took a big bite from a winter apple, as if to prove his point. "But for now this is excellent!" he continued with pieces of fruit being spat all over Guy's chest. "Don't you see? The king has just given us a water-proof excuse to tax his most loyal subjects. We will suck out every last penny from his lords—and we will do it in the name of his majesty's release. Oh this is so good!"

Guy's thin lips were pulled into a crooked smile, his eyebrow raised into an arch in his forehead. "And Robin Hood?" he asked tensely.

"Who? Oh, him. He has been so quiet since we turned his lady leper into fish food that I hardly remember what he looks like any more. Rather sad really, he was an amusing distraction between the hangings and the tax rounds. Oh well, what's the point of nostalgia, hm?"

"With all do respect, sir, Hood is hardly an amusing distraction! He might have been biding his time during the winter. My men have been roaming through Sherwood for months but all they find is ashes from the campsites. There is talk of sorcery."

"There is always talk of sorcery! Can sorcery harm us Gisbourne? Can talk? A clue-"

"No," Guy sighed.

"Actually, yes," the sheriff sucked thoughtfully on his gold tooth. "Make sure they don't talk too much, Gisbourne. Actually, make sure the next one who mentions sorcery gets his tongue cut out with rusty scissors. Yes, I like that—wouldn't want them to be afraid of shadows now, would we?" He laughed in unabridged amusement, "No, it's much better that they are afraid of us than some of Hood's sorcery, hm? Don't you think?"

"Yes," Guy grunted and tried to hide his disappointment. The sheriff seemed to think that 'out of sight out of mind' was a good approach towards Robin Hood, while Guy had spent every day since he came back from the Holy Land obsessively chasing the outlaw. He did not believe in sorcery, but Hood was like a ghost. They found traces of his presence or tales that he had been spotted leaving money or robbing some traveller. Of course they had found outlaws, but it was the traditional kind rather than the noble heroes of Hood's gang. Oddly enough the lawless thugs hadn't seen anything of Robin either. He was still there somewhere, running, hiding, biding his time… The thought of his defiant grin, laughing at Guy as he ran in circles trying to catch him, made Gisbourne feel sick to his stomach.

"It's time Gisbourne," the sheriff sighed and roused his right hand man from his gloomy musings. "Time to rally the troops, time to make this squalid excuse for a town into a war camp. I will travel to London to speak to Prince John – forgive me, _King_ John. Better get used to the appropriate titles, hm? Meanwhile the black knights will be arriving with their armies. Please see to it that they are housed well, Gizzy. You can throw out the peasants if you wish, I'm sure the gutter can't be much worse than the petty sheds they call homes. You know I once met a man who reserved the biggest house for his pigs?! His family practically slept layered! One on the other, like a deck of cards. No wonder they reproduce like rabbits, must be hard to keep track of all bits and pieces when you live intermingled like that."

"Sir," Guy interrupted the sheriff, his voice snappy with impatience. "How can Nottinghamshire even support such an army?"

"_Support _it, Gisbourne?" the sheriff grinned.

"They will require housing, food—and last year's harvest hardly left the storerooms half-full. My foreman informs me that the fields are tired from excessive cultivation—"

"What on earth makes you think that this peasant business would interest me, Gisborne?! Hm? The armies will be housed and fed even if it means starving every single measly commoner to death. Heh."

"But that will leave Nottinghamshire the poorest county in England! People will leave or starve!"

"Yes?"

"And—Sir—may I remind you that we _live _in Nottinghamshire? I have invested a lot of time and money into Locksley."

"Oh, allow me to yawn! I'm sorry about your redecorating, Gizzy, but strangely enough I find myself indifferent to this particular conundrum." Vaysey wiggled out the gold piece from his rotting grin and probed the gap from his lost tooth with his tongue, sucking and smacking as he groomed out the residues from the evening meal. Then he sighed and watched Sir Guy who stood stiffly in restrained rage. "Oh really, Gisbourne," he finally exclaimed. "What did you think? That we will stay here when the war is over? Hm?! Don't be such a fool! Do you really think I would have treated the county like this if I expected to live out the rest of my days here!? A clue – no, no, no. Once the _coup d'état_ is over there will be an abundance of free land. Just think about it! All those royalists and do-gooders who will have to hang—ah, the suspense! The excitement! The future of Nottingham is irrelevant. This place has served its purpose. Let the fields die, let the farmers starve." The sheriff laughed.

Sir Guy's thin lips stretched into a tense smile. He had wondered occasionally about the sheriff's way of draining the countryside, knowing that it would eventually bounce back in the shape of measly harvests and sparsely populated villages. It seemed a foolish way to bite the hand that fed you, but this explained it well enough. His intentions, his goals had nothing to do with Nottingham. Use it and leave it to rot. It made sense that Vaysey would consider an entire county to be merely a tool for his personal power-struggles; that was the kind of man he was. Yet it was a shock to Gisbourne to see the extent of the sheriff's indifference.

Sir Guy had expected to rebuild his family fortune with Locksley as base, eventually gaining control over Nottingham when the sheriff was dead or had moved on. Now it seemed that it would not happen like that, and it surprised him to realise that this detail, although minor, rather upset him. For months he had felt increasingly annoyed with his own village being used to house the mercenary troops, seen them trample the grass and let the houses decay. He had attributed this irritation to the fact that his home was crowded by foreigners, but in truth he also felt a trace of guilt towards the villagers. Deep in his soul he recalled his lordly duties, the values that had been drummed into him from years of harsh education, and the most prominent of these was to make sure that his subjects were safe - from outsiders if not from himself.

"Sir," he murmured, and hesitated for a while. Give objection or praise - that was the question. Guy's conscience wasn't non-existent, yet neither was it a force to be reckoned with. Thus the discomfort he felt at the prospect of sacrificing Nottingham was quelled as easily as you blow out a candle, and he swiftly shrugged off his objections. "Sir," he repeated with a dejected sigh, "The plan seems very-- satisfactory."

The sheriff nodded and Guy had just arranged his face into an appropriate look of contentment when the door to the study suddenly was slung open. Then Guy's heart sunk like a stone as he recognised the jovial beauty that was Sir Adam of Kent coming sauntering into the room.

"Gentlemen!" Sir Adam exclaimed with a little bow. "It has been too long. And may I say, this setting becomes you much better than the desolate yellowness of the Holy Land, Sheriff Vaysey."

Vaysey grinned and threw out his arms in sickening affection, making Guy turn away to hide his disgust. "Adam!" the sheriff called out, capping his hands together. "Yes, I do feel the colours down there made my complexion look rather washed out."

"Indeed, yet you would be a pleasure to behold in any environment sheriff."

"Oh surely we are on first name basis, Adam! Call me Pippin."

"Pippin it is then," Adam laughed as Vaysey pulled him closer and gave him a kiss of each cheek. It was exactly how Guy remembered it from the Holy Land, and just like then he found it horrible to witness.

"And Sir Guy!" Adam grinned, turning to the gloomy man "It's been too long. Haven't you heard that pink is the new black? You should try it, my friend! It works wonders with the ladies, I kid you not."

"What are you doing here?" Guy sneered.

"Gisbourne!" Vaysey sighed. "Don't be rude to our guest! Sir Adam is always welcome."

"It was a harmless question, my _liege_," Guy grunted sarcastically in response. "I was merely startled."

"If you are so easily startled it is no wonder you always fail, hm? Really Guy, sometimes I think you need to grow a spine – or a human part of a more southern nature, perhaps."

Sir Adam gave out a rippling laughter with the unabridged mirth which was his trademark. "Actually I came here with that dreadful bore, Sir Carter," he explained. "And we bumped into that Robin fellow as well. Interesting character that, albeit of a somewhat overly romantic disposition."

"What!" Guy snarled. "You met Hood!?"

"Met him, yes. Had a little chat as well."

"You had a chat?!" Guy called out, suddenly white with untamed fury. "You had a _chat _with Robin Hood, the most infamous outlaw in England, and you let him slip away?"

"Hm, when you say it like that it does make me sound rather bad. I prefer to see it as tactical reconnaissance - 'know thine enemy' and all that."

"Yes," Vaysey grinned. "A very good initiative."

"A good initiative! Sir!" Guy barked. "He let Hood get away unscathed!"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Sir Adam smiled. "Hood is starved and on the run. He's got more will than ability, I'd say. What is one man to the biggest army in England after all? A mere trifle." Adam grinned cheerfully and gave Guy a friendly thud across the back. "Now, I think I would like to rest my feet, perhaps have one of the maids give it a little rub as well, hm?"

"Of course you shall, my friend," Vaysey said. "You heard the man, Gisbourne! You have been chasing Hood for- what? Three months? Four? Sir Adam, on the other hand, is here less than a week and practically stumbles over Hood's camp! Brilliant! You should use his knowledge instead of this unflattering jealousy. Hm? Sir Adam," he continued and turned to the jolly crusader, his scorn instantly turning into something resembling paternal pride. "I will make sure that the best guest chamber is at your disposal, as well as any maid you may fancy. Gisbourne is the expert in that arena - he can give you a tip or two, can't you Gizzy?" Guy grunted some garbled words in response, unwilling to help but unable to defy the sheriff's orders.

"Excellent," Adam sighed and started to walk out the door with Vaysey's palm on his shoulder. A few steps into the corridor he suddenly turned and looked at Guy, snapping his fingers. "Oh, I almost forgot!" he called out.

"What?" Guy hissed in open hostility.

Sir Adam cocked his eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind and twisted his lips into a sly smile instead. He did not like Guy of Gisbourne, so why would he bother to tell him about Lady Marian? It would be much more fun just to ride it out and see what happened if she actually did come back. "I so wonder how much you people actually _know _about the outlaws," he mused instead. "You pretty much got all your men set on catching them, do you not?"

"Yes," Guy snarled. "The bulk of the force – Hood is a significant threat to the security of the county."

"Ah, interesting," Adam smirked merrily. "I mean, there are only three of them after all. Seems like a bit of waste of resources, in my humble opinion."

"Three?!" Guy exclaimed and felt his jaw drop. Surely they had to be more than that?!

"Robin included, of course," Adam continued casually. "There is a big, slow man – more muscle than brains, you know the type – and a jittery fellow with neither brains nor muscles in abundance. Much and Little, they are called - rather amusing if you like that kind of travesty I suppose. That is about it. Oh and Carter, I almost forgot my blond comrade. I wonder what they will name him now that he is a part of the gang. Average Joe?"

With those finishing words Adam laughed and continued to saunter down the corridor as if he didn't have a single trouble in the world, leaving Sir Guy to glare after him in growing irritation. Three! He had been wasting all this time on _three people_, and they still eluded him! With a frustrated sneer at no one in particular Guy turned to walk off the other way, with no other plan than to leave this damned castle for an hour or two. It was a lovely day outside. He might as well find some idiot to ruin it for before he dealt with his further chores. There was nothing quite as good for one's mood as to make sure that there was someone else who had it worse - that was one of the sheriff's lessons which Guy had taken wholly to heart.

"Gisbourne!"

Guy froze in his step and forced himself to turn to the sheriff, who had appointed a maid to show Sir Adam the best guest quarters and now stood glaring at Sir Guy.

"Sir," Guy responded in forced politeness.

"Bring back your men from the forest."

"What?!"

"Three men, Gisbourne," Vaysey sighed. "Three, mortal men who has hardly even been heard of the last couple of months. Is that our greatest enemy? Hm? Soon, the biggest army in England will be at our disposal. How will it look if all our own men are tied up in some game of hide-and-seek in the forest?! We would look less like fools if we had them fighting windmills."

"Sir, if we underestimate--"

"There is such a thing as _over_estimating as well, Gisbourne. And this is an order, not a piece of advice. Get on with it."

Gisbourne swallowed down another futile objection, then bowed mutely and decided that he didn't have any choice than to simply do as he was told. He may not always agree with the sheriff, but he still recognized his authority. This was Vaysey's world and Guy was just an underdog. In order to get what he wanted he has to be patient and submissive. His personal revenge towards Hood would just have to wait.

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**NEXT: The king is not the king and there is a skirmish where heads would roll, if anyone had aimed at the throat.**


	28. Chapter 27: God Wills It

**I am so sorry about this update taking forever. I did try but it just refused to get written. The next chapter is almost done though, so you shouldn't have to wait another month for the next update ;) **

**Thankx to ****Biancaneve, Jess, Annie, Chanel, Mizco, Burnsier, Moonlightfaery, Bowandarrow and ****Emmithar for commenting (hope I didn't forget anyone!)**

**xxxTrixxx**

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**Chapter 27: God Wills It**  
_  
-In which we take leave of Germany_

The main room of Dürnstein's only inn was filled with smoke, since the innkeeper Eberhard was a rowdy drunk who was too greedy or lazy to hire a chimneysweeper. With the inn being the only good drinking spot in town this continuous neglect eventually solved itself, or so Eberhard had noticed. Once it got unbearable a group of the more frequent visitors usually united to collect the money to get the chimney cleaned, or the hole in the wall mended, or the broken chairs replaced. It was the way of the world, and who was Eberhard to question that?

The innkeeper coughed so that his bloated belly shook and spat out a gob into a barrel used for general waste or the occasional dishes he didn't feel inclined to wash. He cleared his throat and let his eyes dart around the foggy room, which would have been his life's great pride had he not wasted any such feelings on excessive amounts of strong ale. Not many visitors on this cursed night, he noted grimly. The old gang of drunkards sat squeezed around a corner table and played dice with bored looks while one or two ladies of the nights hovered in the periphery, with little hope for any job opportunities to appear on this gloomy night. Apart from them there were two foresters who drank with silent intensity, a young married couple - no doubt trying to make each other's company more appealing through the wonders of alcohol, Eberhard mused sarcastically - and the two German knights who had been staying at the inn for what seemed like an eternity. Eberhard felt a shudder of discomfort run down his spine when he studied the pale Templar Knight with the skeletal body and fanatic eyes, twisting his worn-out rosary in a trembling claw of a hand. Swiftly the innkeeper poured himself another jug of ale and took a swig to swallow down the unease. Aye, they were good guests alright, paid in silver like proper nobles, but Eberhart couldn't find it in his heart to take any pleasure in their stay.

A gust of cold wind made Eberhart turn to the door which was swung open to reveal a fair and familiar young woman. There was a drizzling rain outside and her blonde hair was damp at the ends, making the curls pointy. Apart from that, Emma, a kitchen maid from Dürnstin castle, had the kind of looks which improved with the slight chill in the air. Her cheeks were rosy and the red lips seemed fuller in the delicate face. She gave Eberhard a little nod in recognition before she turned to walk briskly over to the two German knights. Eberhard took another swig of ale, shook his head in muttered in mild disapproval. That lass sure knew how to choose her company! A wave of the knight's hand made him pour the table a new round of ale, even though he knew that the jug intended for the pale knight would be devoured by the dark one, somewhat like the cows in the Bible. That seemed to be the way of the world as well. The pale one hardly ate at all and the dark one had an appetite worthy of a bear. What was it these blokes called themselves? Eberhard scratched his head, leaving his fingertips greasy from dirt and fat, then moved to scratch his chest and armpit in that order, and gave out a cough. Johann and Lukas - that was it. They both had those matching clothes and the bird-shaped rings, he thought, like they belonged to some secret society. Eberhard muttered another oath of disapproval, grunting over the ways of noblemen and their funny customs, though, he reluctantly admitted, it was a good thing with paying customers who tipped generously if he only managed to keep the ale in the jugs. He focused not to spill as he moved over and planted three jugs with foaming ale at the table, gaining a beaming smile from Emma and a nonchalant nod from the knight called Johann.

"Evening Miss Em," he slurred and tried to steady himself. "Wha' brings you out on a God-godforschaken knight – night – as this? If—_if_ I may ask?"

"Oh you may ask," Emma giggled, and Eberhard watched enchanted as her voluminous chest wobbled like two delicious puddings. "I was just saying to Johann and Lukas here," she clarified, "but you may stay n' hear as well. It's no big secret as such. See, what they say is – well, they all say, and who am I to say otherwise, that he is leaving now."

"Not without paying his bill?" Eberhard responded confused as he tried to focus on whatever the current topic of the discussion was. He gained a look full of cold disdain from Lukas for his efforts.

"His bill?" Emma exclaimed with a chirping laughter. "Oh you silly old man! He's at the castle, isn't he? That English king I mean – the prisoner. Aye, he is free to leave now, so I suppose he's no prisoner no more. Apparently there was some gambling debt involved, but they all have so much money, I don't know how that could matter much really."

Eberhard smiled confused and watched as Emma lifted the jug to her lips and took a sip. The mood around the table had changed considerably by her words, but she seemed blatantly unaware of it. The look in Lukas' face was so intense that it looked as if it should easily burn a hole through an average sized wall. Johann was practically drooling, his jaw fallen open and his eyes wide in excitement.

"Do you have exact time?" Lukas snapped, and Eberhart suddenly realized that he might never have heard the pale man talk before. His words seemed cold and sharp like daggers, and he shuddered again. "The exact place? We need details."

"Oh I have details," Emma smiled triumphantly. "I know it all, my darling. Time, place, everything and all."

Lukas inhaled sharply through his nose as Eberhart felt himself starting to back away from the table. There was a tremble which went through the pale knight's emaciated body and he shut his eyes, pressing the thin lips to tightly together that there was s strain in his chin when he swallowed.

"Ah," Eberhard heard the knight say as he sauntered back to the counter, casting a look or two back at the table. "This is it then! The time for the lion's downfall. The vulture will fly, the sheep will be—freed, like the children of God—yes, I can—I can feel it. We will all feel it. Feel the Devil tremble! This is the final test, the final test from our Lord Jesus Christ and his Heavenly Father."

Eberhard frowned as these words were uttered so loudly and fervently that the entire room fell silent and turned to the knights. There was the hollow rolling of a dice against a table, and then a low chattering started anew. Lukas was silent again, but his eyes were so intense that even Emma and Johann seemed uncomfortable. The innkeeper shook his head and started to cough as he inhaled a bit too much of the smoky air. Those northerners, he mused absently, a shifty bunch the lot o' them. Lions and vultures and kings and God knows what.

He sure wouldn't like to be that lion, he mused as he poured himself another drink and coughed.

It was time.

Time, finally time, to end this life, this mission, this one-man crusade against the true evils of this world. A different kind of man might have felt empty faced the end of everything that he had built his life on, but Bruder Lukas had no such concerns. Outside this mission he was nothing. He was the crossbow on his shoulder and the sword which weighed down his left hip, he was the cross in his hand and the cross on his back, and the mumbling prayers which fell from his lips were his immortal soul. In this the very last days of his life, his body was a trembling shell, so thin that the skin stretched over the bones and his muscles were reduced to slices of tough jerky. They never seemed to cease, the shivers and uncontrolled twitches. When he stood up in the morning he had to do it in stages, stopping on the way in order not to faint, and gather what little strength he had to complete the task. He had lost control over sleep. In the middle of a prayer he'd black out, or he'd nod off in the middle of a rare meal and knock over the jug of bitter ale, waking up with his tunic soaked by the loathed beverage.

It had puzzled the Bruder at first that God would let his body decay before he had completed his mission, but not long after the truth had dawned on him and he had fallen to his knees in gratitude. The lord was cleansing him before the final battle, sending him a sign. It was not with physical prowess that the devil would be defeated, but rather the power of the holy light. In the heat of battle his hands would find the strength they needed to fire the arrow, and it would be a humble weapon. No poison this time. The poison had been Vaysey's idea and Lukas had become increasingly certain that it had been a mistake. Since they failed they must have displeased the Lord. After all, His power was infinite and nothing in this world could occur if He did not will it.

Bruder Lukas took a deep breath and stood up slowly, stopping a moment when he felt the familiar darkness clouding his vision. It was like balancing over a great void, and he knew that it must be the presence of the devil which caused it, trying to pull his soul down into the nothingness in between worlds to render him harmless. Once he felt steady enough he stood up straight. He hesitated a while before he buckled on the belt with his sword in the simple scabbard, stifling a grunt of pain as the weight pressed on one of his many bruises and scratches. His skin was sensitive when it laid this close to his bones, but he quickly distanced his mind from the battered body and gently stroked the crossbow on the table. The sword and the crossbow – they both had the divine shape of the cross in their structure. Yet he knew that he would not be able to carry the crossbow or the arrows. This was why God had put Ritter Johann by his side. Lukas had passed the first test when he didn't drive the burly knight away, proving to his Lord that he had tenacity and benevolence - that his patience and clemency was infinite and divine. His fingers trembled when they stroked the wood, pale claws with nails which were yellow and deformed, and he inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Johann," he snapped, and the dark knight walked over to face the man which he considered to be his superior, even though not a single oath had been spoken between them. "Take the crossbow and the arrows. Soon the lion will leave his cave, accompanied by no more than two or three servants, and in the name of the lord they will be slain. The devil's foul breath must be eradicated from the nation of England to free the people from the shackles of evil which holds them."

Ritter Johann nodded mutely. He had heard this before and his fear for the Lord's rage was great enough for him not to question a single word which fell from the skeletal Knight Templar's mouth. It was still an hour from dawn when they left the inn in reverent silence for the task ahead. The streets of Dürnstein lay silent apart from the occasional drunk or lady of the night, but they still seemed considerably less deserted than Johann had hoped for. On the first street they walked, an unsteady figure tumbled from wall to wall as he moved in a zig-zag pattern down the muddy street, a flask in his hand and a garbled tune slurred out between lazy lips.

"_Ignoshce mi--mihi, Paschter, quia peshc-peccavi,_" he slurred when he tumbled into the wall in front the two knights, making an unsteady cross-sign and smiling sheepishly. Bruder Lukas shuddered at the sound of the poor Latin and made a gesture at Johann to shove the drunk away, after which he painted a swift cross in the air.

"The Lord have mercy on your soul, sinner of the night," he hissed in disdain and left the drunk behind. Only when he had left did the man straighten his back and put his hands on his hips, watching shrewdly as the knights disappeared around the corner before he gave out a loud cooing sound, making it hollow by letting his hands form a cave around his mouth.

For a few more paces the two knights were undisturbed, absently noting the sound of an owl or perhaps a pigeon following them through the town, until a French lady of the night emanated from a doorway and swayed her round hips in front of Ritter Johann.

"You lads look like you need a good time, _oui_?" she smiled with a pronounced accent. "I give two from price of one and half, _monsieurs_. Better bargain than you can get."

The spark of interest in Ritter Johann's features was quickly quenched as he caught a glimpse of the intense loathing radiating from Bruder Lukas.

"Later perhaps," he grunted, stroking the woman briefly over her shoulder and moving her away from him.

"But_ monsieurs_—such hurry," she continued innocently and followed the knights some steps down the street. "Why is that?"

"Enough," Johann sneered, his eyes darting nervously to Lukas disapproving face. "Leave us! No more questions or I will feel less inclined to pay you for your services, lady."

"Oh, _pardonne-moi_," she sighed and stopped following them, turning to seek out some other customer no doubt. The sound of the owl began anew behind the knights.

The street was silent and empty when Ritter Johann and Bruder Lukas made their way up a roof top and crouched down, waiting for the king who would have to take this way through the town. The French lady of the night and the drunk with the bad Latin moved down the street, entwined into an embrace as the man slurred crude words of drunken affection and the woman gave out bursts of shrill laughs. Ritter Johann felt a twang of annoyance as he watched the couple disappear into the house, leaving the rowdy drunk to taste the sweet nectar which he himself had been deprived by the mission at hand.

"They will burn for their sins," Bruder Lukas stated coldly and gave Johann an accusing glance, as if he could read his mind. The dark knight could feel a blush of shame claiming his face and he lowered it in an act of humility, humouring Bruder Lukas somewhat.

It was close to dawn when the little retinue with the king finally ventured down the street. They were on horseback; the king riding in the middle with the treacherous woman who had travelled by Lukas and Johann's side from Eastern Roman empire in front, and a man with curly hair and a white hat behind him. Lukas could recognize the king by the way he sat on his horse, and the ring which shone bright red on his finger. With one slow, smooth movement he took the already drawn crossbow from Johann. His breathing had become laboured and his eyes were wide with anticipation and his trembling hands put the arrow to the string and rested the weapon against the roof to steady it. This was it. His finger on the trigger and a single, gently push, then the arrow went flying.

It hit the king square in his heart. The figure on the horse tensed before he slumped down over the saddle and slid of slowly. There were some commotion as his friend dismounted and gathered around him, the woman's hand on his chest and the man, who was short but well proportioned, put his hand on the pommel and drew his sword. Lukas shook so hard that it took him some time to realize that the painful convulsions were born from a silent laughter, twitching and wheezing for air and the familiar darkness hovered in the periphery.

"Kill—them," he panted to Johann. "All—of—them. The woman, the man. Kill—the Devil's spawn—kill—for the Lord. For the Lord!"

Johann nodded and reached for the crossbow, only to realize that there were no more arrows.

"The arrows?" he whispered puzzled, "Where are they?"

"The Lord wishes us to use the holy sword," Lukas stated, delirious and crazed by the lack of nutrition and euphoria of the moment. With a strength he should not have he stood up and moved swiftly down the ladder, closely followed by Ritter Johann. The dark knight had a nagging feeling of doubt, a little voice telling him that the arrows should have been where he left them, right by his side, but Lukas was his salvation from a lifetime of sins. He followed with his sword drawn as the pale Knights Templar walked with frightening intensity towards the lady who crouched over the fallen king. The man with the white hat raised his sword and took a fighting stance, shielding the woman and the king with his body. He was dressed in a striped jacket and the white hat shined in the darkness as Johann moved forward to meet his blade. He had not anticipated any true challenge, and thus he was surprised when the man parried his blow and moved away, stroking his sword against Johann's wrist. He gave out a yelp of pain and backed off, focusing his willpower to keep his grip around the weapon. When he moved backwards he suddenly the tumbled into something soft, and froze instantly.

"Do not move," a silky female voice said in a French accent. "I hold the dagger, _monsieur_, to your back."

The next words were spoken in English and Johann recognized the drunk who they had bumped into earlier.

"You 'erd the lass," he said, and Johann frowned, unable to understand the foreign tongue. With his body still frozen he watched how Bruder Lukas reached the woman and the king, then in horror saw the king who should be dead stand up straight and the woman draw her sword on on one smooth movement. The heavy weapon looked light in her hand and her movements were soft like a dance. In horror Ritter Johann saw her raise the sword as Lukas came at her and then the soft blade penetrated the pale monk, leaving him to sink to his knees with a gurgling sound. With a roar of pain Johann raised his blade and rushed towards his saviour, the pale Knights Templar Bruder Lukas, meeting another blow from the short man with the white hat, and then a second and a third. The little man was a wall, impossible to get past. Blow after blow they aimed at each other while Bruder Lukas raised his face to the sky and reached his palms up, embracing the word which had so cruelly turned against him.

"My Lord," Lukas yelled with the last of his strength. "Why have you forsaken me?! My Lord!"

Then he doubled up over the blade in his stomach and died knowing that the mission had failed. Not only did the king stand up, tugging the arrow from his chest, but he was far too young to even be the king. They had been conned - well and truly lured into a trap by the Devil. He should have known! Wasn't the devil a master of disguise?!

While Ritter Johann watched Lukas die he lost his concentration. It was only a moment, but a moment was more than enough for one of this opponent's blows hit him across his skull, cracking it open. The world was spinning as he rolled over on his back, his left eye blinded by thick blood and his thoughts torn to shreds. He could see the group of people gather around him – the drunk, the French lady of the night, the treacherous woman, the short man with the white hat and the king who wasn't a king. The woman bent down and touched his skull, shaking her head.

"He is done for I think," she stated in the foreign English tongue. "At least he will never fight another battle."

These were the last words Johann heard before the world went dark.

It is of little consequence to this story, but an interesting detail all the same, that Lady Marian sent for a doctor and his life was spared. For years he lived at a monastery, his memory forever torn, his words garbled, his mind reduced to a child's. He walked with a limp and completed the chores the monks gave him with in return for food and housing, and the day he died he was mourned by the brothers. For all his wishes to be cleansed of his sins, he was given half a life in childish innocence, and he did not have enough mental capacity left to feel bitter over his lot in life.

"That's it then," Allan-a-Dale stated as he looked at the two bodies on the street.

"Yes," Marian nodded. "Well done everyone. Luke, you did very well."

Luke's young body was trembling and his eyes were wide with fear, yet steady with a swelling pride, as he looked up to face Marian.

"I can take this off now?" he asked cautiously, meaning the armour and clothing he had worn in order to impersonate the king.

"Yes Luke, you can take it off," Marian smiled reassuringly. Luke nodded and started to eagerly strip off the belt and pull the heavy, padded vest over his head. They had packed it with hay and reinforced it with leather and metal plates, and it fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Lastly he took of the big, red ring and handed it shyly to Marian, terrified to break the expensive jewellery. "You really did very well," she said again when she took the ring, squeezing Luke's hand briefly. He blushed and backed off with a short nod, unable to meet Marian's eyes.

"Couldn't 'ave done it better myself, mate," Allan grinned and gave Luke a thump on his shoulder while his other arm was occupied by encircling Griet's waist.

"Everyone was great," Luke smiled coyly. "If I didn't know it was you two, I think I would have thought it actually was a drunk and a lady of the night."

Marian raised her eyebrow, thinking that Allan posing as a drunk and Griet as a—woman of dubious morals—wasn't all that far from the truth, but chose not to say anything. In truth this plan had gone off without a hitch. All that was left now was for them to return to England and warn Robin that the king was coming back. The real King Richard would leave with his mother and take the safer, but longer, route through France. There was a thud in her chest as Marian's heart leaped with joy, the excitement tingling through her body. A couple of weeks – that was all. A couple of weeks and they would be back in England, back with Robin, back home. Home! Her mouth stretched into a smile and she gave Count Friedrich a brief hug, stifling a spontaneous laugh of pure joy. The choice to bring him had been an easy one. He would know the best way to travel through Germany and that would make this trip swift. He returned the smile and hugged her back.

"It is such a pleasure to see the Lady smile," he stated, and even though it was a flippant comment he meant it from the bottom of his heart. She had seemed so weighed down by hardships lately that this display of pure, almost childlike joy from her made the German count feel truly sentimental. "Now we shall make haste from this town," he continued and rubbed his hands together. "England, I think, has waited for us quite long enough."

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NEXT: There is a long due lover's embrace._


	29. Chapter 28: Blue Boar Inn

**Hey people.**

**The chapter below is_ the_ chapter.I hope I don't dissappoint you.  
**

**Jess: Thank you for the comment! :D  
Dina: I think I had to get rid of the brother's before I left Gemany, but now that part of the fic is done, and Marian is leaving Germany stronger than ever.  
Javelinbabe: lol, thank you. I love writing tricky plans. ;)  
SailorNeo: Halleulia indeed. It's been quite the journey to get this far lol.  
Annie: I Germans may be my creepiest oc's. Bruder Lukas sure always freaked me out.  
Ana Sedai: You always write such great comments :D I have to amit, it has been pretty challenging to get this fic finished, but now it is only a few more chapters left to tie all the threads together and give Robin and Marian alife together, as they always should have.  
Bliss: Great to hear you liked the chapter! It was very difficult to write, I think this is like the third version lol.  
Halo: lol ty, glad you're liking teh story :D  
Astrid: Wow, this is the longest rewiev I have ever had on ! Thank you!! It inspired me to update this today ;) **

**Also thanx to Emmithar and ****Kegel, who reviewed on earlier chapters.**

**Go on people. Read. Enjoy. Please review, b/c I need to know if you like d it. It is effing scary to write a chapter tha people have been waiting for for monts lol **

**xxxTrixxx**

* * *

**Chapter 28: Blue Boar Inn**

_- In which…_

'Blue Boar Inn' people called the two-floor house situated in the outskirts of Sherwood Forest, so close to the dense vegetation that you couldn't open a backside window without being brushed by a branch. The outlaws used it because you could escape from it so fast that is seemed you had vanished into thin air. This night, Robin came alone, sneaked in though the back door with his hood leaving half his face shaded. With a nod at the tavern owner he ordered in a cup of lukewarm ale, so bitter that his tongue curled, and sat down with his back against the wall. He always had the back against the wall, where his eyes had plain sight of his surroundings. It is the advantage of the prey to only have to get away, in case misfortune strikes, and a lawless man is always hunted.

It was a fairly slow evening in the gloomy room, Robin noted as his trained eyes darted from table to table and assessed the situation. Two travelling monks, one fat and one thin, like the cows in the Bible; a group of pilgrims with floppy hats, a travelling salesman and his scrawny boy. Once Robin had registered that they seemed blatantly disinterested by his presence, his muscles relaxed and he settled into a less wary mindset. With no imminent danger his thoughts came surging back, cramming his head with questions. Robin had found it hard, to not say impossible, to wash Marian from his mind since Carter showed up in the camp, and to focus at the important task of preparing Nottingham for the final battle. He had come here for information, or so he had told his gang, but in truth it was the solitude which he craved. His thoughts were so loud, his soul so restless in its wish to be on its way to Germany, his longing for Marian so fierce.

Impatiently he tapped his foot against the floorboards and waved at the servant girl, who moved her lanky body across the floor with a smile ready to greet the familiar figure. Elise was the leisurely daughter of the inn owner, a rather gray and uncharismatic young woman who knew the outlaws well. The lawless gang was as close to regulars as the oddly situated inn ever had. As she moved closer Robin realized that her usually spotty skin had healed out, leaving her complexion bumpy with scars but less inflamed. Surprised by this transformation he silently wondered how many other things he had missed, so easily forgetting that the world had continued even when his own had frozen in a single moment in time. The grief had been so infinite and blinding, that isolating darkness which he continued to cling to, his only friend and his greatest enemy. Letting go of the pain meant letting go of Marian, and that thought was too frightening to deal with. Even now his mind screamed at him to stop, begging him to quench every mention of a possible life without her. She was coming back. She must be coming back. One day he would feel the familiar figure between his arms once more, rest his cheek to her hair and feel the fluttering of her heart. He must remember that the tidings Carter had brought were good ones, even through they had shattered Robin's world once again.

"Evening Robs," Elise greeted him quietly. "Wha' d'you want? Is the ale to yer liking?"

"Elli, I do think you have grown into quite the lady since I last saw you." Robin's cheeky smile made Elise giggle happily, not noticing how flat and disinterested his words sounded. "The ale is quite satisfactory, thank you. Do you have any news for me?"

Elise squinted with her eyes in thought and pursed her lips. There was a throbbing of Robin's heart, a desperate wish that she would have news about Marian. Of course he had come for news about the king, or the sheriff and sha-mat, or anything else which concerned the welfare of the nation, but what he truly yearned for was tidings about Marian.

"Oh, well there is ze German of course! 'im who talkz like zis!" Elise giggled. "Strange lad if ever I saw one."

"A German man," Robin asked with a tense smile, pushing back the tears as his heart sunk. "A German man you say?"

German. Man. Here. Not Marian. _Of course it wasn't Marian_. Robin didn't know why the feeling of disappointment was so strong when he had no reason to believe that this barmaid knew anything about his lost love. For some reason he'd just had this feeling, something pushing at the back of his skull which caused him to hope that she would know something all the same. Then he frowned as the actual meaning of Elise's words dawned on him. No Marian, that should be no great surprise, but why a German man?

"Oh, and there is a lass too," Elise continued, her hand brushing against Robin's shoulder in a rather flagrant flirt. "Silent, kind of. Probably real' pretty down in Germany, though naught like a good English lass."

"There is no woman fairer than a true English rose," Robin murmured absently. Elise's fingers had found a lock of his hair and he waved her off as if she was an irritating fly. "This man," he continued. "What is he like?"

"Foreigner like," Elise shrugged. "Talks funny—Funny clothes."

"Funny clothes?"

"Fancy-- like he minds, y'know? The lads I know wouldn't give a rat's bum about clothes and suchlike."

As if they wished to illustrate this last statement, the pilgrims in the floppy hats started banging their jugs at the table and call for the maid's attention with impatient yells.

"So, this man is vain," Robin murmured. "And fancy like a noble, and speaks English I gather?"

"Ay, I'd say, though it sounds all funny. Sorry I 'ave to--" Elise gave Robin an apologetic look, and he nodded. He didn't truly want her clumsy advances invading on his need for privacy, and thus he savoured the fact that her work came between.

A vain man. Robin came to think about Count Friedrich, with his ridiculously white hat, and how his entourage had been all dressed up in puffy clothes. Perhaps all German men were like that? You'd have to be vain to wear a white hat, impractical as it was, wouldn't you? He took another sip of the terrible ale and then sat hugging around the jug with both his hands, staring deep into the dark beverage like a fortune-teller. His heart was hung-up on the stranger when Elise came over again.

"Robs?" Robin flinched and looked up at the barmaid. He had been so deep in thought that this rude awakening into reality lost him in a moment of bewilderment.

"No refill, thank you," he smiled absently.

"Oh, but I'm comin' to tell ye to go to the inner room, like," Elise responded. "Someone's waiting." She lowered her voice and whispered the last sentence as if she wished to give the secret meeting the rightful air of mystery, but her eyes glimmered with excitement. Robin tensed his every muscle to regain control over his senses, yet the drumming of his heart and a swish of blood, surging in his ears, filled up his entire world as he rose from his seat.

"Who?" he breathed. "The German?"

"Nah, the lass," Elise shrugged and left Robin to vainly try to still his pounding heart.

Years later Robin would think about the walk between his corner-table and the inner room, and remember them as the most frightening steps he'd ever taken. It was the criminal's walk to his verdict and the air seemed so heavy with suspense that he could hardly breathe. The vain idea that Marian might be on the other side was staggering, even daunting, and even though he wanted to run he forced himself to walk slowly on unsteady legs. There was no reason to this hope, but hope is not a feeling which thrives on reason.

What did he do if she wasn't there? In the dusky tavern room the great Robin Hood, defender of the weak, fighter for the king, champion of the bow, wasn't quite sure that he could live through that. _Not again._ In his mind he recalled that faced with his own boundaries, a human is much stronger than he believes, yet that insight was easier to think than truly feel. The tiny shred of hope that Carter had given him had opened all the wounds and he felt like his heart was on display, unsheltered and naked in his chest. It was not a feeling he enjoyed at all.

Robin took a deep breath with his palm against the coarse wood of the door, and then pushed it open as though he were removing a bandage to look at the wound. For a moment everything was black, and then, realizing with mild amusement that his eyes were shut, he opened them to look into the room. The space was small and dusky, smelling heavily of smoke and a sour stench from a couple of barrels by the wall. Apparently the Blue Boar family used this space to ferment the ale, and by the taste of it they didn't do a very good job or it.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously to the darkness, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

"Robin?"

Robin swung around so fast that he almost fell over the barrels. That voice sounded so familiar, a ghost or a dream, so much like an echo from history that it felt surreal to hear it out loud. For a moment he wondered if it had been in his head. After all Marian was always in his head. He had built himself a sanctuary of memories in there, recalled her face whenever he needed strength even though it drained him during the lonely hours. Now, as he stared into the shadows, he realized they moved, and a slender shape began emanating from the darkness. There was a pale face which seemed like a bluish apparition in the faint light, two big eyes and a mane of hair draped around the oddly familiar features. Even distorted by the darkness he knew the way she walked, how proudly she carried her head and moved the agile body. Robin stared, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth in a spasm.

"Marian?" he breathed, hardly able to believe the moment was real.

"Marian!" He stood stiff, so scared that it would be a dream that the moment felt like an eternity even though it was scarcely more than a few meagre seconds. Then the woman nodded and lifted her hands to her face, burying it between her palms for a moment as if in tears, and he realized that she was trembling.

"Marian?" It was an echo, a dream, a hallucination. He was back in the deserts of the Holy Land and he called out her name.

"Yes," she whispered, "it is me."

The voice was hoarse and heavy with emotion and the four simple words plummeted down into Robin's reality. He wondered why he couldn't talk, why he failed to find a witty response, why he choked when he tried, why his mouth tasted salt and his eyes felt sore. Then Marian covered the space between them in a few leaps, tumbled into his embrace, and months of grief were shed like water off a thatched roof.

He didn't realize that he was crying until a whaling sob escaped him as he buried his face in his beloved's shoulder. She was so soft, so much warmer than the cold bed the forest had offered him lately, so strangely yet unmistakably real. He was amazed to find her solid; that she still was in his arms when he opened his eyes anew. He loosened his grip a bit and felt her exhale as if she had been holding her breath, shivering as she did so.

"I am sorry," he heard himself say, but the words felt alien as if they didn't belong to him. He moved his hands to cup her face and felt the dampness form her tears. "Did I—did I hurt you?"

Marian shook her head in response, looking up at the man who held her heart in his hand. Her skin was tingling as if it had been charged with electricity, her limbs unsteady and shivering. Robin pulled her in again and she sneaked her arms around his waist, burying herself in the warm embrace. It scared her to feel how thin he was, every bone so pronounced under the cloth so that he reminded her of the carved Jesus-figurine on the cross in Nottingham Church. She came to think about the sickly emaciation of Bruder Lukas, his hollowed-out torso and skeletal face, and her heart sunk in terror. Yet she felt sure that Robin had not done this to himself. This undernourishment was desperate, a simple lack of food rather than any sort of divine sacrifice. The outlaws must have been truly struggling to survive this winter, so few left and with no help from her. She opened her mouth to ask about it but decided that there would be better times to address such a matter. He would be reluctant to answer her, too scared to be vulnerable and appear weak, and it would put a temporary wall between them. Instead she shut her eyes and savoured the fact that she was here, in his arms. At this moment, the entire world consisted of nothing but his nearness. His body enclosed around her, his heartbeat filled her ears; she was buried in his scent, musky and intoxicating. The heat was hypnotic, soothing, but their bodies trembled like two leaves fighting the autumn storms. They clung to each other with a fierce desperation, born from the sheer strength of the loneliness which had haunted them through the months.

"I have missed you," Robin heard his own words, breathed out like a whisper, and became instantly annoyed with how inadequate they sounded. This was Marian. She was here! It was impossible but true, and no words could ever be enough. He moved his hands to her head and held her face between his palms, tilting it to meet his eyes. "I thought- I thought I had lost you. Marian, I thought my mind was lost. I thought I—"

"Robin, hush…"

"No, don't hush me! My men gave up on me--"

"Much would never give up on you," Marian smiled and Robin shook his head vehemently in order to force her to see how serious he was.

"I even lost my archery," he continued, "if you can believe it. Me! I haven't missed a target from twenty years yet I suddenly missed all the time. I'm not strong without you. I don't think I can ever be strong without you again. I have missed you." He took a trembling breath and stroked the hair from her face, whispering the final words which evaporated into the air. "My everything, my life, my love, my England."

Marian gave out a sobbing laugh and moved her hands to his head, burying her calloused fingers in the ragged wisps of hair and leaning her forehead to his. "Your bow?" she retorted in a reminiscence of his clumsy proposal all those months ago. Robin rolled his eyes and sighed, backing off in sudden annoyance over her inability to take his words serious. In response Marian took a step towards him and took a firmer grip around his neck. "My love," she smiled between the tears, "remember when you came home from the Holy land? In my wounded pride I pointed an arrow at you and you were so cocky I wanted to scream and throw the bow at you. You said 'It is me, Robin.', as if that was the answer to all my prayers."

"And I was," Robin grinned in a flickering shadow of his usual cheekiness, but his voice broke and shivered.

"Oh, you never change, do you," Marian sighed and pressed her lips to her lover's rough cheek, smiling faintly. "Perhaps this was the homecoming you expected back then - that I would fall into your arms like a ragdoll. I, on the other hand, I have feared that you wouldn't even know me. I am so glad that you do."

"Know you? Marian, I can't—I can't believe that you are here. It's—I'm—"

"I know, I know. I scarcely dare believe it myself." Marian smiled, brushing the tears from Robin's cheek with her palm. "And I have missed you too."

Every painful step on the road back to England lay behind her like a golden trail, every hardship seemed worthwhile, as Robin leaned down to kiss her. It was a cautious kiss at first, slow and lingering, lips on lips barely touching. His hands moved up and down her arms in featherlike strokes, building up a heat in her stomach that contrasted sharply to the chilly room. Then she deepened it, pushed back so that he stumbled over the ale barrels and she lost balance for a moment, her body resting against his, his hands hugging her waist. The passion flared up like fire in peat, spurred by months of loneliness and despair, what seemed like a lifetime of longing. When the void in their hearts was opened it sucked them in, filling up the holes which grief had corroded into their hearts until the world was nothing but a sweeping intimacy.

Once Robin had started kissing her he found it impossible to stop, his lips drawn to her skin like iron to a magnet. Her hair smelled of smoke and something distinctly Marian, her complexion flushed as if embers were glowing beneath the chilled surface. Something about her was different, a maturity that must have grown from hardships, a sadness buried deep within like the melancholy of a soldier. It echoed his own soul, battered and bruised but stronger, less innocent and less naive. Her hands were different as well - calloused and less shy when they climbed up between his tunic and shirt, and rested close to the heart that she must know belonged to her. The opportunity to rediscover this woman, so familiar yet somehow different, took his breath away. He wanted to tell her that, wanted her to know every feeling that raged within him, but didn't find the words. Instead he stood silent and tried not to be self-conscious about his starved body and tattered appearance. He tried to groom himself best he could in the ice-cold spring streams in the mornings, but the hair was an unruly mess and his stubble ragged. The clothes hung loose on his body, the cloth worn thin and frayed. Robin had never felt quite so much like a shabby beggar. Even as he was outlawed he had always carried an air of romanticism, a noble thief and king of the forest, but he was painfully aware of the fact that there was little left of that now. Then the reason for his current livelihood crept into his mind anew, tugging on his attention now that he reluctantly recalled that there were more things than Marian in this world, but he pushed them away. This was their moment. England could wait.

--

Robin did not leave the Blue Boar that night. When morning came the couple lay entangled in a small bunk, Robin's body squeezed uncomfortably to the wall and his shoulder was stinging beneath Marian's head. Yet he lay still and ignored the fact that the pain spread down his arm, terrified to wake the woman who slept so calmly. Marian had a small smile on her lips, and even as she woke up she remained with eyes shut while she could feel Robin watching her. Not until she felt him rolling his wrist and giving out a muffled moan of pain did she shift her weight, allowing him to change position and roll over to his side. His arm was heavy where it rested on her waist and his fingers painted little circles on the small of her back, causing the smile on her lips widen and her eyes shoot open in the pale morning light.

"Morning, my love," Robin whispered and grinned at her, and she crawled closer, pressing a kiss to his neck.

"Morning," she murmured back sluggishly.

Marian had done her best to tell Robin about her journey last night, stealing time between the kisses and caresses, but found it was more challenging than she had anticipated. Even the slightest mentioning of any hardships made Robin tense and frown, and she found herself wishing to spare him her miseries. 'Never mind,' she had whispered and kissed him reassuringly, 'it is all over now'. Yet it wasn't over. The last stage, the final battle for England - that had just begun.

"We have a full day's work ahead," Marian sighed wearily at these thoughts and snuggled closer to Robin before she pulled away and sat up in the bed. "You will have to meet the count and Allan, Luke and Griet." She had not seen any of her companions since she was reunited with Robin, not the count or Luke, who slept in the room next to hers, or Griet and Allan, who weren't around much anyway. They all seemed to have disappeared in a rare moment of tact.

"Yes," Robin agreed with very little enthusiasm. If he had any saying in the matter he would have preferred staying in this bed all day. Reluctantly they rose from the nest of blankets and dressed slowly under playful teasing. She'd take on a shirt and he would pull it off her again, he would put on one boot and be forced to chase her around the room for the other one. When they finally moved down to get some breakfast they were flushed and out of breath, their fingers entwined under the table while they ate slowly.

"What do you know about the ransom?"

Robin regretted the words even as they left his mouth, cursed them yet he knew that he owed his men this much. They did not sign up to play extras in an adventurous love affair. Carter had been right. Robin Hood had to care about England, to love it and put it first at all times. He had to. It had been a choice to give his life to this cause but it wasn't reversible. It demanded his loyalty like a leach drains blood from its host, and they both knew it. I could have bought us more time, Robin mentally reprimanded himself, yet knew that the discussion was desire versus rationality, and a hero had to be rational. Hero. What a hollow word that was behind the mask.

"I know that the sheriff uses it to his advantage," Marian responded with a sigh, instantly putting on an air of professionalism which Robin loathed in spite of his better self. He gave out an annoyed grunt, aimed at the sheriff for making his life so difficult.

"How?" he asked.

"He is taxing the loyal lords in the name of the king's rescue. We saw it time and again on our way here. Some have changed loyalty because of it, pledged alliance to John Landless in order to save the local economy from ruin."

"To save their own skin you mean!" His anger flared up just as fast as his passion, every emotion too close to the surface for comfort.

"Robin, the choice between one's living and a distant king is not always an easy one. In any case it is a shallow allegiance. When the king comes back they are likely to reverse their decision."

"It is too uncertain," Robin sighed and felt his body tense. "Every advantage we have is a gamble!"

"But we have little choice."

"We always have little choice! I am sick of it!"

Robin caught Marian's puzzled expression and fell silent, wondering where all this fury came from. Perhaps he would not have been so distressed about the fickle lords had it not been for the fact that his entire life had been sacrificed for this war. He gave up everything, yet they treated it like a political conundrum at best! They went on with their lives out of the fire, married and died just like they always had. How could they not care? Why didn't they rage over the injustices!? Had their eyes not seen what his had?

"How is the state of England?" he asked feebly. "Is it all as bad as here?"

"It's not great. Much better than Nottingham though," Marian responded. "This is the backside of the nation."

Robin nodded wearily. "We live in the coalmines," he said. "The furnace. We are driving the sheriff's wheels ahead like the water in the mill."

"Don't flatter yourself my love," Marian smiled and crept closer to her troubled lover. "I do think you are flowing in the opposite direction." Robin laughed and pulled her in, giving her a grateful kiss. It was odd to feel this light, to have the darkness lifted, even if only for a moment. He had started this like an adventure and never expected to carry the world's troubles on his shoulders, but now that he did it was a rare relief to have someone who could lift them.

"We Germans call it 'Weltschmerz'"

Count Friedrich watched amused as the two lovers sprung apart, unsure whether to be angered with him or ashamed to be found in such an intimate embrace.

"Oh, don't mind me," he continued jovially. "An old count should not get in the way of reunited lovers. 'Weltschmerz', that is world-trouble or—world-pain perhaps. You weep for ze world. It is a difficult thing to be cured from I think - if you want to hafe a heart in your chest still. And I do think the world needs both your hearts, because it has none of its own."

"Why don't you sit down, count," Marian invited him and tried not to look annoyed. "Where are the others?"

"When Robin did not come back last night, ze outlaws came here. Luke, Allan ze fair Griet left with them. They will be back, do not worry."

"I do not worry," Marian reassured him and wished with a slight feeling of shame that he had left with them rather than stayed behind. As if the count could read her thoughts he smiled and folded his hands.

"I thought it best to remain here. To guard the lovers, so to speak, because lovers guard themselves very poorly. Also, I made some very interesting friends." He smiled and nodded at the pilgrims with the floppy hats who looked away with sulking expressions and murmured something to each other.

"With your gambling you are as bad as Allan," Marian stated and raised her eyebrow in accusation.

"My lady! You hurt me! Allan is a successful gambler because he cheats while I am a successful gambler because I play well. It is very different."

"You both anger people," Marian sighed and decided to leave the subject of gambling. She truly did not understand why people needed more excitement than life offered them for free.

"So do you, my lady," the count smiled and snapped his fingers at the barmaid. "Ze king did not like you at all."

"The king did not like you?" Robin asked, suddenly concerned.

"I'm sure his affection for me will grow with the distance," Marian responded hurriedly in an attempt to dismiss the truth behind the count's words. "Talking about that, we have made plans for him to return. When he does, England must be ready."

Robin frowned and watched Marian for a while, noticing how uncomfortable she seemed when she spoke about the king, then simply nodded and took a bite from his bread.

"We will be ready," he said, curling his fingers around Marian's hand and locking his eyes into hers. "Now, I will be ready."

* * *

**NEXT: England is facing the final battle. A king returns, reunited with the last of the troops from the Holy Land, and the black knights gather. But where does the loyalty of the peoples' hero lay? When the armies of the highborn clash the commoners are squashed between the waves, and the fight which stands between good and evil is reduced to a struggle for survival. Don't miss The End of the world as we know it - and the beginning of something new – in the final chapters of an epic journey. **


	30. Chapter 29: Catfight

**Well people, this chapter is painfully long and rambling, lol. It is, however, also the second last chapter before the epilogue. **

**Lena86: My aunt is called Lena lol. Thank you for the comment :)  
Javelinbabe73: Thank you :) Glad you liked the reuinion. It was a scary chapter to write b/c there were so many expectations on it.  
Ana sedai: Ty ana, you always write such nice comments :D I think Robin is a very emotional person, and it's both an asset and a flaw. He is very passionate.  
Jess: ty Jess, I'm glad you liked it and though the wait was worth it. I really menat for the reunion to be somewhere in the middle, but the story sort of told itself and I gpt a bit carried away with it lol.  
.N: :dances in the happy confetti: lol  
Ignorance-is-bliss: ty. I actually prefer writig action/drama to fluff so I adore writing finales. I hope you will like that too :)  
Bowandarrow: ty :D Noo need for critique when my writing is so flawless, eh? lol  
aries-angles: ty for the comment :)  
Dina C: You're welcome. I'm so glad people liked the reuinion :)  
Kegel: I love adding some history to a fic, though I tend to bend it to suit my story lol. Ty so much for the comment!  
Ese: ty for the comment dear :)  
gatewatcher: ty for the comment. :D  
Jenn: Lol, oh I don't have time to write any books atm ::) Thank you for the wonderful comment though! I'm fashinated by the fact that this fic still finds new raders .o  
JamSack: _"_**_I sort of wish Carter had kept it to himself rather than tell Robin about Marian. How did you decide?_**_" _Well, basically people had been moaning about me getting R/M back together, or at least letting them know the other was alive, for like half a year lol. I chose to oblige them somewhat ;) Also, it is difficult to write reunion scenes, so I sort of decided to split it in two. That way I could have Robin handle Marian being alive in one chapter, and handle being reuinted with her in another. It's difficult to write scenes when they become completley overwhelmed by different emotions and reactions. So that was why ;) Took away some of the pressure basically- Ty for the comment :D  
Wildenglishrose: My Internet is down as well, I'm sitting in an empty classroom at my uni lol. It's horrile, feels like being chopped off from reality lol. Ty so much for the comment :D **

**So, here comes the next chapter. lots of cats in it lol.**

** Enjoy.  
xxxTrixxx**

**Chapter 29: Catfight**

_-In which there is a very angry cat and some rather unpleasant tunnels._

Mr. Plum was the kind of cat who didn't take "no" for an answer. It could be argued that this particular characteristic belongs to all cats, but in spite of this Nottingham was full of cats that were more than willing to take a "no" from Mr. Plum. One could say that he had that kind of quality, acquired over years of ferocious cat fights in which he was the last one standing. He was old, ancient in the world of street cats, an enormous blob of fat and muscles, scarred flesh and shaggy pelt, which he moved lazily along the streets. His body was battle-worn, the tail a chunky stub, which he carried high like the flag of a Roman army, and his jaw still held a proud, albeit not complete, set of fangs. One of his ears was cut in two and the other curled and crumpled like a seashell. If you dared to come close enough, you would see that he had more scars than most Englishmen could count, a chaotic mosaic of lines cutting trough the ragged fur. They ranged from the pallid shadows of old battles to the nasty red scratches from new ones, and to finish off his menacing appearance, his left eye was white and smooth like a reptile's egg. In truth, he was not a cat in his prime years, but he had the appearance of a monster from some ancient saga, and to his fellow cats he seemed almost invincible.

Cats don't revere legends. They revere themselves, and thus the young cats never ceased trying to deprive Mr. Plum of his throne. Yet he was still the undisputed king of Nottingham, and as he moved down one of his streets, he noted with a dangerous tang of irritation that some young dolt had been trying to snatch a piece of his turf. It smelled strongly of a reddish cat living down the street, an eager youngster who kept pushing Mr Plum's boundaries. With the infinite smugness of youth he felt secure, knowing that eventually he would win over the old patriarch. The vigour of youth always prevailed in the end. Mr. Plum's grey-speckled fur rose and he curved the massive spine, a mountain range along his back, tensing the paws so that a set of yellow claws cut into the soggy Nottingham street. Eventually the king would fall, but that day was not going to be today.

These were the plans in Mr. Plum's single-minded head as he moved down the lane towards Nottingham square. He was half-way there when he knew, with the instincts of a cat, that something was terribly wrong. With a hiss he crouched down, aiming his one eye at the sky as he flashed his fangs and dug the giant claws deeper into the mud. It was a cloudy day, but instead of a burning sun there was a fluttering orange flame which moved in an arch over the battlements, diving down towards the cat with terrifying speed.

If he had been one of those posh cats who took pride in catching a mouse, this sight might have caused him to recoil and back into a dark corner. Mr. Plum, however, was not that easily intimidated. Instead his hissing grew to a crazed battle scream towards the intruder, the scarred ears laying flat against his head and the stumpy tail standing in strict attention. When the ball of fire struck down next to him, a rain of tiny embers stung the sensitive muzzle, curling one of his whiskers into a black string. He blinked away the pain and started circulating the foreign object – yellow flames turning into a pillar of fire which licked a perfectly straight stick, ending in some painted feathers. When the fire died down, all that was left was the black remnants of an arrow. Suspiciously he aimed his distorted face towards the sky anew, noticing that the dull greyness of the clouds was freckled with burning stars, plummeting down over Nottingham city. The roar of hundreds of human voices drummed against the cat's ears, toxic smoke filling up the streets as fire started to caress the flammable rooftops. With a prolonged meow Mr Plum crumpled his face into a picture of righteous rage against the world in general, the insolence of the reddish cat fast forgotten faced with this new chaos. An inferno had fallen upon Nottingham, and he wasn't prepared to give up his kingdom without a fight.

---

They had all come back.

First Marian with Allan and Luke, then Will and Djaq with the king of England and all the forces from the Holy Land. There had been hugs and laughter like in the old days, and together they had roused the people of Nottinghamshire to take up arms for their king. Count Friedrich had left for Germany again when the king came back, mainly to not risk getting squished like a mot between rivalling royalties. The German emperor would not like the count to show such an open loyalty towards the English king. He had been sad to leave since he considered all that was left in Germany for him a cushy boredom - much in the line of a person returning from an exotic holiday – but in the end this was not his war.

Because the people of Nottinghamshire loved their hero and would follow him to the very gates of Hell, the villagers had formed a motley army behind King Richard's trained troops once the day for the final battle arrived. They had all been proud - their chin's cocked and their eyes firmly on the walls on Nottingham where Prince John now had taken up residence as well. This was the end of the world as they knew it, and they longed for the utopia which Robin had promised them.

Robin was by their side when the battle commenced, not by the king's. Marian's words rung in his ears when he had started to turn his horse to King Richard and Carter, and it had opened his eyes. '_You are not his man_,' she had stated softly, '_You are their man, Robin. The people's man. Be with them_'. He had turned to watch the loyal, trusting looks on the peasant's faces, armed with pitchforks and javelins, some unsheltered, others with an old shield or dressed in rusty chain-mail or worn scraps of leather armour. _Their man, not the king's_. Marian was the voice of his heart, and he had listened to her.

Because he had remained there, with his people, his love and his gang, he had seen them all recoil when the first rain of arrows hit Nottingham. He had seen them turn to him in confusion, as if he had the answer they all needed. Why was the king attacking Nottingham like this? The town which held their relatives, their friends? The arrows would not even reach the castle! Their eyes were filled with accusation. _Their man, their hero_. Do something!

Robin felt cold and sick as he spurred on his horse to reach the king. His chest froze when he realised in pure desperation that he was attacking his own town - that Nottingham's proclaimed rescuer stood and watched as it burned! The guilt strangled him, made him feel tiny and crushed beneath his conflicting loyalties to the crown and the peasants and townspeople of Nottinghamshire. He knew from experiences in the Holy Land that humans were somehow easier to kill en masse than one by one, simpler to ignore as individuals when they were part of a crowd, yet he knew the faces of this crowd. They were the men and women of his daily life. They were his people!

This was not how Robin had imagined the last stand of Sheriff Vaysey, nor the king's triumphant return. He had somehow thought that Richard would simply ride in and turn everything that had been wrong right again, as if his presence was the only difference between heaven and hell, the switch between good and evil. Even as he saw the heavily armed army he had expected a prolonged siege at worst. Once that was over the peasants and townspeople could reclaim their town and the king would oust the sheriff. Yet that was not how it happened. Instead King Richard struck almost immediately, with a swiftness that carried his watermark. Robin should have expected it. He knew how the king fought his wars, and should have remembered that King Richard was a highly effective warrior. He did not stall.

Robin spurred the horse into a wild gallop until he finally reached the king, raised his voice and begged him to stop.

"You know how wars are fought Robin," King Richard stated in response to the young man's pleas. "Some blood is to be expected, even innocent blood. Do you truly wish me to give up my kingdom without a fight?"

"Your Highness, of course not, but this- this must stop!" Robin watched in panic as King Richard's huge army, which had lined up outside Nottingham, lighted another row of arrows which were raised and released - causing flaming projectiles to rain down over the city.  
The choir of screams which had risen from inside the walls sent shivers of dread down his spine. He had found King Richard as calm as ever, technical and callous when faced with battles like the warrior king he was.

"So this is who Robin Hood is?" King Richard frowned. "A coward? One who runs and hides in the forest? That is not the courageous young man I knew!"

Robin sighed and restrained the surge of panic which threatened to break his concentration. He had forgotten how difficult it was to reason with the king. He opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a voice coming from his left.

"A heart does not make a man a coward!"

Robin turned to his side and found Marian's face blushing with anger, her back straight as she rode up to the pair. He mouthed a warning at her but she merely cocked her eyebrow and ignored him. Yet another person who he failed to reason with, Robin mused dejectedly. Why was it always the impossible people that he loved the most?

"We cannot sacrifice Nottingham!" she continued.

"What do you suggest we do then Lady Marian? Talk?" King Richard laughed mockingly.

"I don't know," Marian retorted. "Perhaps we could try to write them self-pitying poetry and hope they jump the battlements."

King Richard turned pale with anger and Robin choked on his own tongue, his jaw dropping open. _Marian! _

"Lady Marian!" King Richard roared. "If you wish to solve this_ conundrum_ on your own, then I'm sure one of my catapults is more than willing to find you a route into the city. Meanwhile we men can work in peace from your female follies. Go embroider a cushion, or share the sheriff's if you wish."

"Enough!" Robin snapped, his voice so loud that Marian and the king instantly turned to him. He was blushing with anger and Marian felt her lips tug into a smile, suspecting that it had been the king's insinuation that she might consider sharing the sheriff's bed that set Robin off. Her love was on her side, albeit he was too cautious to say it in so many words. "Your Highness, buy us time!" Robin continued hurriedly, watching another row of arrows being lit and aimed. "The biggest army in England is knocking on the sheriff's door and his subjects are abandoning him one by one. All we need to do is tip the glass a little. Give us time to sneak into Nottingham and we will finish this! We will finish the sheriff and Gisbourne – or at least open the doors from the inside. My King, this army will be able march in victorious with the swords still in the scabbards!"

"Be not a fool Robin," King Richard responded. "One man cannot win a battle."

"There is at least half a dozen of us and I think we have proved that we are more than capable!"

The king seemed to ponder this for a while before he heaved a deep sigh. "A compromise," he said finally. "Because I am indebted to you, Robin of Locksley. You get into the city, if you can. You have two hours, after that we crack this door open like a virgin's girdle and there will be no mercy." He lifted his hand and as sudden as it had started the rain of arrows over Nottingham town ceased. Robin exhaled in relief.

"Thank you," he breathed, and the king nodded at him.

"Two hours, Robin," the king finished gravely. "And consider any debt I may have to your Lady repaid."

Robin nodded. Two hours to finish the task he had taken upon him, two hours to succeed or fail miserably. He wouldn't mind going himself but Marian would insist on coming and so would his men. Well, most of them - maybe not Allan. In a way it was a relief. It was less of a burden when you were a part of a gang, less lonely than solitary acts of heroism. Together Robin and Marian walked back to the gang in sombre silence, their steps brisk and determined, and Robin took Marian's hand in his. It was an oddly gentle gesture in the midst of all the drama, and Marian glanced surprised up at her lover with a brief, warm smile, causing his heart to leap. He had waited so long to be with her, all the years in the Holy Land, then won her back, overcoming all her bitterness and resentment only to loose her again when he thought her dead in the storm. At the end of this day this sordid story would be over, one way or another. They would end it together. He, his love and all the people he held dearest. _My gang,_ Robin thought proudly when the motley group of outlaws came into view. They had to be the most unlikely group of heroes in the history of mankind.

"We have two hours," Robin explained to his gang without ado. "If we find a way in, if we open the gates from the inside, the people will be spared."

"What? From the king?" Will asked in disbelief. "What do you mean, why would the King hurt them?"

"Because they are defending a city which the King needs to take control over," Djaq explained softly. "It is their home, and because of that they are helping the sheriff."

"They would never help the sheriff!" Will exclaimed.

"Would you let a friend burn your home just because he wants to get to your neighbour? Does it matter at all if you loathe your neighbour when your crops burn together with his?"

Will looked uncertain. "But will they defend the city from us as well?" he asked cautiously. "They know us!"

"We may be able to persuade them to open the doors," Robin frowned. "It is our best hope. We need a fast way into the city."

The gangs' faces all turned to look at Allan who sighed in dejection. He had hoped to play his part in the outskirts of the battle, but it seemed he had no choice but to follow Robin on another ridiculously impossible mission. It would probably all fail without him anyway. "The Roman tunnels could to the trick I suppose," he murmured. "Mind you, we will all stink like rotting eggs and sour rats' milk when we surface."

Much cringed but swiftly hid his disgust when he was met by Allan and Griet's amused looks. Then the two lovers looked at each other and grinned as if sharing some mutual joke.

"What is so funny?" Much asked indignant and glared at Allan.

"Oh, Much, it is nothing," Griet exclaimed with a beaming smile. "Allan has talked about no outlaw more than he has mentioned the loyal Much, I assure you."

Much seemed suspicious, and at the sight of Allan's innocent eyes he soon grew certain that the things Allan had said about him was of a less than flattering nature. He snorted and turned away. "Master, I will follow you into the tunnels," he stated bravely with his hand on the sword. "If there is no other way, we will—crawl with the—rats and—all the other—things that live there." He looked miserable and Robin gave him a comforting thump on his slumping shoulder.

"I know you will, Much," he said. "Allan must come as well."

"We shouldn't be too many," Marian pointed out and included herself in the company without as much as a look in Robin's direction.

"I agree," Robin responded. "Marian and I, Much and Allan."

"And Griet," the French girl added.

"What?!" Much exclaimed. "This is not some Sunday picnic for happy couples!"

"Griet can come," Robin said, thinking that the woman's presence might keep Allan on the straight and narrow at least for an hour or two. "Will more people than that slow us down, Allan?" he asked the rouge who had become the tunnel expert for the mission.

"I want to come as well," Djaq said before Allan could respond. "Perhaps they are in need of a physician in there."

"My strength," Little John stated and pounded his staff into the mud.

"Well then," Robin interrupted Will, who had opened his mouth to add that he wanted to come as well. "Little John, Djaq, Allan and Griet, I, Much and Marian. Will and Luke will stay and make sure the king keeps his promise. I have great faith in you."

Will seemed uncomfortable. "Robin," he complained with a look at Djaq.

"It is an order, Will. I cannot have every man and woman I trust following me into Nottingham. It will leave our backs unprotected."

Will shrugged and seemed to reluctantly accept this response. He had travelled with the king through most of France after leading the last of the troops from the Holy Land, accompanied by a burly Scottish knight and Djaq. The king had at least some faith in him, and thus Robin's decision, although he hated to admit it, made sense. He watched helplessly as his beloved Djaq and all his friends moved swiftly by foot towards the walls of the burning city, then turned his head as he felt something warm on his shoulder. Luke stood by his side and squeezed his arm gently.

"Don't worry," he said. "Marian and Robin could defeat an army singlehandedly, and now they are together. They will manage."

"Yeah," Will smiled and hugged his brother. When he pulled back it struck him, not for the first time since they were reunited, how much his brother had grown. It was not a boy who stood before him, but a young man, soft-hearted but brave in his on way. "Yeah, sure they will," he repeated. "Stay here Luke. Look after the peasant troops. I must go find the king."

Luke nodded and sat up straight on the horse, then dismounted when he was met by the worried faces of his peers. He was not some lord or grand hero and he had a better chance of calming them if he spoke to them on their terms, on foot and by their side.

"Robin will fix this," he reassured them, and smiled as he saw his words multiplied through the masses, passing from mouth to mouth accompanied by smiles full of cautious hope. Robin Hood could fix anything. He was fighting for them.

---

The Roman tunnels had been built long before Nottingham castle and the city wall, long before the houses with their cellars, before the wells and the cobbled streets. Everyone knew that the ground beneath Nottingham was partly hollow since it had happened not long ago that a builder grew too bold, dug too deep and built the house far too tall, causing the entire house to collapse down into the ground. The street where it had happened was still known as Babylon Alley, reminding people how God had come to Nottingham and punished _superbia, _the arrogance of Man – just like in some story from the Bible.

Allan stopped in front of a fork in this tunnel system and frowned. He had never used this to get into the city before. It was a superb escape route if you didn't mind rats and wading knee-deep in stinking water, but getting into the city was different since there were many more routes to consider. Should they turn right or left? The plan, notoriously vague since it belonged to Allan-A-Dale, was to find a way where you could climb up into the city. It would probably be easiest on Babylon Alley where the backyards still had holes, he mused. The entire ground has sunk down somewhat when one of the tunnels collapsed beneath the unfortunate house, causing that part of town to be slightly crater-shaped.

"Allan," Much moaned when Allan had stood and stared at the forked tunnel for some time. "Are you lost? Where are we?! Are we in the town yet? And where will we get up?! We cannot save the city from down here!"

"Shut up," Allan grunted as John used the lamp to light up first the left tunnel, then the right.

"This one is south," the big man finally stated and nodded at the right tunnel. "Will get us to under the town square."

"Yeah that's what I was thinking," Allan responded and tried not to look too relieved. His sense of direction was terrible since the only route he really cared about was 'out of harm's way'. "We're not going there," he determined and turned left, into the narrowest tunnel which sloped slightly. The ground was slippery and the air stale, and as it straightened out the water reached him above the knees.

"Isn't this romantic?" Griet joked with a chirping laughter as she stumbled on the hem of her dress and tumbled into Allan. "But alas, my poor dress is ruined."

"Why don't you take it off, sweetheart?" Allan grinned at her. "I'll give you a hand of two."

"Oh grow up," Marian sighed as she shuffled her way past Much and Robin until she reached the people in the front. She removed a dagger which had been hidden in her cleavage and unceremoniously ripped off Griet's dress above the knee. "This is too much cloth," she explained. "It will be far too heavy when it is soaking wet." She and Djaq were both dressed in pants and the little Saracen's approving smile was hidden by the darkness of the tunnel. "There," she snapped when she had finished tearing off Griet's dress. "Now move on – we haven't got all day."

"_Merci,_" Griet smiled and concealed a shudder as the gooey water closed around the naked knees above her stockings.

Allan moved swifter now that Marian's eyes burned his back, instinctively holding Griet's hand in his and supporting them both with the other. Finally the compact darkness gave away to tiny streams of sunlight, illuminating the slippery stone-walls of the tunnel, and Allan stopped beneath one of them. "John," he said, peering up at the sky above and nodded at the small opening, "do you mind?"

John stepped up and slammed his staff in the ceiling, causing it to tremble and collapse before them. They moved back coughing and spitting, but as soon as the mist of sand started to evaporate Robin gestured for John to heave him up into the man-sized hole. One after the other outlaws followed their leader and began their ascent into the burning city.

---

There was no end to them, the girl mused in fascinated bewilderment. She had been out in the garden to look for her cat, incidentally the very same young dolt who had infuriated Mr. Plum by moving into his territory earlier, when her mother's kitchen garden suddenly collapsed before her eyes. A head had appeared, followed by two arms which clawed into the soil as a young man pulled himself up, like this was the Judgement day and God had resurrected the dead. Once one was up, dirty but seemingly pleased with the general order of things, he was followed by another. There was a woman who looked foreign with short hair and big dark eyes and another who had her dress ripped off by her knees. One man – big and hairy – he truly looked like something from the Underworld, the girl thought with a shudder of excitement, but and that other one—she was sure she had seen _him_ somewhere. The first of them to appear from the ground smiled at her and gave her a short nod.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked and she frowned and shook her head.

"No," she responded, "but that one," she nodded at the shortest of the men, "that's Allan. He used to work for Gisbourne. My sister fancied him like you wouldn't believe."

Allan looked pleased but quenched the smile when the woman in the chopped-off dress gave him a cold glare.

"That's right," the one who had addressed her said with a wink. "And I am Robin Hood. Forgive me for cutting the introductions short, but we need to know the way to the North Gate."

"Robin Hood," the girl snorted sceptically. "How old do you think I am? Well, _whoever_ you are, my mum will kill you all when she sees what you have done to her garden, so you are better off anywhere than here I suppose. You don't want to go to the gate though," she continued and wrinkled her nose. "Everything is burning!" Then she turned her head in the direction of the thick smoke and pointed. There was a mist over Nottingham which stung Robin's eyes, and he blinked away a tear when he followed the girl's gaze.

"Come-on lads," he called out and smiled a brief thank you to the girl. "This way!"

Before the man disappeared out of the garden he seemed to think of something and turned thoughtfully. "I really am Robin Hood," he pointed out to the girl. "And your mother will be compensated for this, tell her that. You have my word."

The girl snorted again, since she was in the age when you are too proud to believe anything a grownup says to be true, and watched amused as one of the women rolled her eyes and closed her hand around the proclaimed Robin Hood's arm. "My love, there is no time for this," she sighed. "Your glory can wait."

As the intruders disappeared the girl looked back at the destroyed kitchen garden, where a red cat now sniffed suspiciously at a turnip. "Ginger!" the girl called out and scooped the reluctant animal into her arms, hugging it tightly and giving it a rather unwelcome kiss.

"Robin Hood", she murmured sardonically as she moved back into the house with the cat pressed to her chest like a cuddling toy, his tail waving furiously and the back-legs dangling. "Not bloody likely, right Ginger?" How daft did grown-ups think she was anyway?! Everyone knew that only burglars used the tunnels, and Robin Hood was at least_ half_ fairy-creature.

He would have simply climbed over the wall.

---

In another part of town, the red cat's greatest rival was currently on a rather vaguely defined mission to save his kingdom. Everywhere Mr. Plum looked there were legs begging to be clawed and people who needed to get a warning hiss when they stepped dangerously close to the scabby cat. The city burned but there were no more projectiles coming from the sky. Apparently he had managed to scare them off, he concluded with a cat's natural arrogance.

He passed a butchery, which was abandoned even though it had the door wide open, and the cat was temporarily distracted by the alluring smell. His mouth watered, but with self-control worthy of a Buddhist monk he walked past the raw meat and started to move to the Northern Gate. Something special was definitely happening over there. A man had moved up to stand on a small platform and people had gathered around him to listen to the human noises coming from his gaping mouth. Humans were unnecessarily noisy animals by a cat's standards, but in Mr. Plum's experience the noisier they were, the more power they had. This experience was partly due to the fact that the people who fed Mr. Plum primarily consisted if chattering house wives, but the cat considered his own instincts consistently flawless and followed them blindly.

The world smelled of anger and fear as the King of street cats moved cautiously into the crowd, his back arched and his eyes narrow while he moved purposefully towards the people on the platform.

"Listen! If you open the door the king--"

"The king is burning our city!" a man from the angry crowd interrupted Robin, and he restrained the growing surge of panic.

"No!" Robin called out. "Not if you open the door! Listen to me!"

"You?" a woman scoffed. "An outlaw? What do we care about kings?! We starve and they grow fat, our houses burn and they build another castle. We cannot afford a goat and they got stables full of useless war-horses!"

"Tax us 'alf to death they do!" another woman called out, instantly gaining the approving nods which Robin had hoped would have been aimed at him. He sighed.

"It will be better when--" he tried.

"No," a man called out. "You're alright, Robin, we appreciate what you have done for us, but you do not understand this. We must protect our homes and families. You cannot ask us to surrender that right to you – a lawless man – just because_ you_ prefer one king better than another."

It made sense. They were all wrong but their reasoning still made sense. Robin could understand why they would think like that. The king had ruined their trust by letting the arrows rain over their houses_. They will die_. All of them would die in the battles and every house would burn, but he had no way of making them listen. The frustration nearly made him scream out loud. He felt something warm on his arm and turned to Marian. Her small hand was placed gingerly below his elbow and she gave him a reassuring smile.

"They will not listen," Robin's voice trembled. The crowd had started to disperse, continuing the job to barricade the gate with any old rubbish they could get hold of.

"Then we must disobey them," Marian responded without taking her eyes from Robin's. "Somehow…" The rest of the outlaws had joined them and watched the townspeople in different shades of dismay. What were they supposed to do now? How did they, a couple of outlaws, fight all these people without harming them in the process?!

They were all deep in thought when the huge cat made his way triumphantly up on the platform. Mr Plum gawked angrily at the humans, hissing a warning which was drowned by the sound of hundreds of people trying to talk louder than the person next to them. Then Little John accidently moved his staff to the cat's giant paw and Mr Plum responded by digging his claws deep into the big man's ankle.

The cat flew. Little John had responded to his claws by kicking so hard that Mr. Plum's grip loosened and he was tossed into the sky like a ragdoll. With an impressive agility the cat twisted the giant body, first the front and then the back with the stubby tail, until he had his paws facing down. He went in a perfect arch, reached the climax and then mentally strengthened himself as he started the decline towards the masses of townspeople. His meow sounded eerie and shrill and turned into a hiss as he landed on a bald man's shiny head and dug his claws into his shoulders. The outlaws stood stunned to silence and stared as the animal managed to completely scatter the townspeople.

"That is the biggest cat I have ever seen," Djaq was the first one to speak. Chaos roamed in front of the North Gate and in the havoc no one was guarding the doors. Some people were fleeing in panic from the livid animal who lashed out at anyone or anything, while others tried to fight back. Djaq's words seemed to lead the outlaws out of the surprise, and it only took Robin a moment to seize the change in the atmosphere and dash towards the gate in grim determination.

"Come-on!" he yelled. "Help me get rid of the rubble! John – keep away any townspeople who get too close."

Once the outlaws realized what their undisputed leader was doing they followed, worked together in frenzied determination, while they tried to make use of this one, impossibly slim chance to success. The despair grew to cheers triumph as the door was opened, if only enough to get a single person through. By then people had started to realize what was happening and were pushing at the gate.

"Much," Robin panted. "Run – get – the king – fast! Once the army gets here the people cannot fight back!"

Much squeezed through the door as the rest of the outlaws continued to fight off the furious crowd.

"You have no right!" a woman screeched and glared at Robin in accusation. "You have no _right _to do this! What gives you the right? _Who _gives you the right?!"

Robin gave her an apologetic look before he shuffled her away with a plank, causing her to tumble back into her husbands arms.

"Robin, we cannot keep this up for long," Little John pointed out and Robin shook his head mutely in agreement. He could see the tips of spears in the far end of the street – the sheriff's men ready to reinforce the gate and kill the intruders. If they got here before the king then all would be lost!

John and Griet were dragging a cart which had been used to reinforce the gate, slowly pulling it towards the opening, and Robin called out for the rest of the outlaws to squeeze the door open some more. Once the cart was placed between the doors Robin's arms trembled from exhaustion, but they moved up to defend the opening. The king's troops were closing in. All they had to do was keep the gate open until he got here.

"Listen!" he shouted. "Listen! The king is coming! This battle is no longer yours! Leave it to the king and the sheriff to fight. Get back! Defend your homes! This gate is lost!"

The furious masses yelled out insults, but their attacks seemed less confident. Some fell back and the crowd slowly started to disperse.

"You friends are abandoning you!" Robin continued. "Follow their advice! This is not your battle anymore! Leave!"

The horns from the king's army came closer and Robin kept his eyes on the sheriff's men. They would be here soon as well. He drew his bow and aimed it at the soldiers, then released it with a twang, followed by another one until his quiver was empty and he had lost count of the spears which had fallen to the ground. Most of the townspeople had dispersed. All that was left now was two armies and a couple of outlaws wedged between them. Someone tugged Robin's arm and he turned to see Marian's big eyes staring at him.

"It is time, Robin," she yelled and pulled him away from the cart and the opening in the gate. It only took a couple of moments before the door was slung open and the king's men welled into Nottingham – wave after wave of soldiers mixed with peasants.

"Now what?" Djaq yelled through the wall of noise.

Robin took a couple of panting breaths and his eyes found their way to some townspeople who still glared at him accusingly. The king would keep his promise and spare the city, and if the didn't attack the houses then these people would not help defend the castle either. It had been right to defy them, but he felt guilty anyway.

"Nottingham is still burning," he responded and forced his eyes away from the accusing looks. "Scatter. Help the wounded, put out the fires."

"And the king?" Marian asked by Robin's side, and he turned to her with a warm smile.

"The king will win," Robin stated and kissed his beloved gently on her smiling lips. "With or without my bow."

Mr Plum hurt. The day had been tiresome and he was starting to doubt whether all this was even worth the effort. Flying was an ability which he had often dreamt of while watching the birds smugly hovering far above his drooling jaws, but in reality he had found the experience to be rather unsettling. In fact, it is likely that he would have turned around had he only known what horror had awaited him when he reached his target area. Kicking! Humans just didn't know how to play fair at all, using their size and their strange removable fur to become nearly invincible. With a final look at the masses of raging people the cat turned his one, seeing eye to the direction he had come from. Somewhere that reddish cat was still trying to get a piece of his turf, and hadn't there been a wide open butchery on the way here? Mr. Plum's jaws started to water, and without knowing that he had saved the day for Robin Hood and the people of Nottingham, he limped away in sulking dignity.

**NEXT: Sir Guy experiences both triumph and defeat.**


	31. Chapter 30: Exit Sheriff

**So, basically chapter 28 had-- lots of comments-- while chapter 29 had-- two. lol. I guess I should have expected it since people have been so keen on the reunion. Anyway, this is the final chapter before the epilogue. **

**Dina: Ty, I'm glad you liked Mr. Plum. I have soft spot for that particular oc. He is actually based on a real cat ;)  
Ana Sedai: Felis ex Machina! lol, I like that. :D I think Marian is pretty damn sick of King Richard, but she does tend to behave like she is invincible at times lol. Look where that got her in the fake s2 finale (the one the beeb wrote, I mean, since_ my_ s2 finale obviously is the_ real _one lol).**

**Thanx for the comments, oh faithful readers. ;)**

**I do love this chapter myself, so I hope you like it too :D  
**

**xxxTrixxx**

**Chapter 30: Exit Sheriff**

_-In which some crimes are forgiven and others paid for_

As the king's army entered Nottingham, the city boiled like soup hanging over an open fire, spitting and hissing while the people moved like ants on the streets. From his place high up in Nottingham Castle Sir Guy of Gisbourne stared as Richard's forces took over, filled up every space and spread like an airborne plague, and in his chest his heart had frozen in terror. They had expected a siege. In case of a siege all their allies would have time to get here and crush the king from behind. It was such a simple plan – bar the gates and wait – but it was failing. It had already failed, Guy corrected himself. They had failed!

"We need to leave – now," Sir Guy paced over to the other side of the room and ran his hands though the oily black hair, then back down to rub his eyes and forehead free of the pounding headache. All was lost. _Everything was lost!_ All he had been striving for, all his hopes, not merely for himself, but for the Gisbourne family name, for the future! All that remained now was to stay alive. Just stay alive long enough to start anew. To run. To flee. The hunter would have to play the part of the prey.

Guy looked briefly over at Vaysey, who was studying his nails in absentminded nonchalance, and the terror in Guy's chest was mixed with disdain. A siege, the sheriff had assured him. He had been wrong, and now it seemed he did not care either way. Why didn't he panic? All was lost! Everything! He turned his back of the sheriff and started pacing again, back and forth, back and forth, as if that actually helped him to get out of here.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Vaysey responded calmly and Guy flinched, turning around with a scowl.

"What?!" he snarled. "We have no chance if we stay here! Nottingham is lost, a sinking ship!"

"Mm, well, but it is also your lucky day, Gisbourne. I am dubbing you to the captain of this sinking vessel – Sir Guy, in the name of God and king and country, la-di-da - etcetera, etcetera. A captain never leaves the ship, hm? Cheer up! You finally got your long due promotion." The sheriff casually picked up a gray cloak and draped it over his shoulders with the air of a man who was walking out for an afternoon stroll in the park.

"What?" Guy sneered, making Vaysey turn to him with a sigh.

"What?" he repeated. "What? What? You are starting to sound like one of my birds! Chirp, chirp! Twit, twit! What, what!" He laughed a little and Guy restrained himself.

"I beg your pardon," the dark man started patiently, but was instantly interrupted.

"No, don't beg, Gizzy. No time for that."

"But you just said…"

"That you are staying, yes. Don't you get it Gisbourne? You need to secure my retreat. As long as you are here, the battle continues. As long as the battle continues, the king will assume that I am still here. As long as the king assumes that I am still here—come on Guy, you know this one! Hm? What will the king assume? It's no more complicated than a nursery rhyme."

Gisbourne glared at the stout sheriff in open contempt, making the little man roll his eyes and smack his lips in disappointment.

"Gizzy, Gizzy, Gizzy," the sheriff shook his head. "Have you ever noticed how Gizzy rhymes with sissy, hm? Well, Gizzy, as long as the king assumes that I am still here, he will not look for me among the masses of tattered refugees. See, I knew that mob of townspeople would come in handy sooner or later. Good thing I saved one or two of them from the noose, heh?"

The sheriff laughed and tied a pouch with gold coins to his belt, then padded it with scraps of cloth so that it wouldn't jangle too much and risk cracking his disguise. Gisbourne's face took on a whiter shade of pale until his complexion looked like it had been carved from wax. The sheriff was behaving as if Nottingham wasn't falling to pieces outside the window. As if the he hadn't just doomed Guy to die in his place. As if everything wasn't lost. _He was even whistling!  
_  
"Don't look so upset Gisbourne," the sheriff pouted his lips and gave Guy's cheek a little clap in mock comfort. "I will manage. High treason is a fickle line of work. I got plenty of savings in neutral places. I have even bought myself an old castle in some remote region of Rumania, very tranquil—and, oh, slavery allowed! That was what sold it in the end, heh. A pretty little castle with a nice view. I'm thinking of taking up gardening."

Sir Guy of Gisbourne had known rage, but what he experienced now what nothing like it. Rage was a red hot emotion - an uninhibited force which roamed your mind and tore your insides to shreds. What he felt now was white and crisp like a January morning, perfectly controlled yet deadly in its intensity. His pallid face was twisted into a wry smile as his fingers closed around the shaft of the talon-shaped dagger in his belt. _Gardening. Savings in neutral places. I will manage!!!_

_This is a man I loathe_, he thought as he watched the sheriff. It was odd how clear that all seemed to him now that the practicality of their cooperation had been shattered. He loathed the sheriff from the very depth of his soul. Common goals is not enough to bind two people together in friendship, it merely serves to bind them to the same sword. When that binding snapped all that was left was hate and an overwhelming relief to finally be allowed to hate. Vaysey was a sort, ugly, unpleasant man with bad teeth and worse breath. He constantly pushed and mocked Guy, bullied him, scorned and insulted him. He was a greedy, disgusting little man and Guy loathed him with every fibre of his body. Thus, what Guy did next could have been done for England. It could have been a noble and redeeming act from a man who finally saw the light. Yet it was nothing of that. He simply did it for himself and because he could. As he felt the weight of the dagger in his hand he sensed the familiar ecstasy of absolute power bubbling in his chest, but this time it was more ferocious than he had ever felt it before.

"My liege," he murmured sardonically in a voice which was hoarse as if aroused and dazed by the situation.

"Yes, Gisbourne," the sheriff responded absently. "Hm, have you seen my pedicure set? I can't seem to find it anywhere--"

"Sir, I wish to bid you good riddance," Guy continued with a cold smirk on his face.

"La-di-da-di-da," Vaysey murmured and started to go through another drawer in the desk. "A sort of silvery box, black velvet inside—sure you haven't seen it? It had my favourite pair of tweezers."

Guy took a firmer grip around the dagger and walked up to the sheriff. "Is this it?" he breathed with his lips to the sheriff's ear, discreetly flashing the curved blade of the dagger. The sheriff glanced at it, then tensed and lifted his eyes to look firmly on Gisbourne. "Not?" Guy continued and raised an eyebrow quizzically, "Oh well--" Then he shoved the dagger into Vaysey's abdomen and twisted it so that the curved side faced the ceiling. Guy's hand was pressed so hard to the weapon that it trembled, his breathing winded and shivering.

"Guh," was sheriff Pippin Vaysey's famous last words before Guy moved the dagger upwards, ripping the stout body open like a filleted fish. Vaysey's eyes widened in shock before they glazed over and his body went limp.

Gisbourne tugged out the dagger and let the sheriff's lifeless body slump down of the floor, sighing as if the act of cruelty had exhausted him. There was sweat across his lip and he tasted the salt with his tongue, running his fingers through the strands of clammy hair. For a while he stood numb and impassive in the middle of the room and breathed in the air which was heavy with smoke from the fires of the burning city. For so long his life had been rotating around the sheriff like the moon rotated around earth, that the lack of his suffocating presence drained Guy. He was on his own now. His own master, his own commander. Yet he had nowhere to go. He stood frozen as a statue while dark red blood dripped from the dagger in his hand and stained the floor. Odd. The sheriff bled just like any man.

"… much better view from up here," a voice suddenly broke into the silence in the room as the door was opened and Sir Adam sauntered in. He was facing Prince John and entered with his back turned to the bloody scene, but as soon as he twisted to meet Guy's gaze he stopped dead - although considerably less dead than the sheriff - and stared. "Gisbourne," he exclaimed as a smile of wonder played across his vivid features, "I do think the sheriff looks a wee bit under the weather! What has happened here?"

Guy glared at Sir Adam, then back at the corpse, and then flinched as he met Prince John's aloof expression. "Hood," he grunted in a half-hearted accusation.

"But you are holding the dagger," Adam pointed out. "And you are soaked in blood."

"What are you? A coroner?" Guy sneered.

"Not as such, no. But I think the blame is quite clear, don't you? I wouldn't exactly call it murder, but it certainly falls in that general category. It is very convenient though, isn't it, my liege?"

"Indeed," Prince John agreed as he pulled off his gloves and moved over to Vaysey's heavily decorated chair. He sat down with a sombre expression and tapped his fingers to the table "This certainly gets us rid of_ that_ problem."

"Problem?" Gisbourne drawled.

"Yes, yes. Now give me the dagger," the usurper waved his long fingers at Gisbourne and snapped them impatiently. "Come now, don't be shy. This war is lost and it has doomed you. I, on the other hand, need only play my cards right. If I take upon me the sheriff's convenient demise, my dear brother is more than likely to go easy on me. Was that not our plan, Sir Adam?"

"Sir Adam?" Guy repeated dumbly.

"That was my idea," Adam smiled jovially. "Very practical how you had already dealt with the gory details, Gisbourne. I will stay here with the prince - holding him hostage for the king, so to speak. You, on the other hand, I would suggest make a fast escape."

The dagger fell to the floor with a clang as reality finally descended upon Gisbourne and made him dizzy and weak with nausea. No matter how this day twisted and turned_ he_ was the one who lost in the end. No one watched his back - no one _needed _him. He was sacrificed, by Vaysey or the prince and Adam, a blunt weapon discarded and forgotten. All the joy he had felt over the sheriff's death faded into a blinding fear regarding his own destiny. His eyes were drawn to the window and he stared down over Nottingham – the burning city which he had helped destroy. Smoke lay heavy over the rooftops and here and there fires flared up like torches to light up the dense night. Blue for sorrow clouded the sky, gray for tragedy claimed the streets and red and yellow stained the sad portrait with rage and horror. He could hear the people scream yet it gave him neither guilt nor pleasure. It had all been for nothing.

In a final act of defiance he picked up his dagger from the floor and brushed off the sheriff's blood, hiding the weapon beneath the armour of black leather. With this dagger he had failed to kill the king, failed to kill the Nightwatchman and failed to kill Robin of Locksley, but today it had not disobeyed him. Suddenly Guy wished for nothing more than to escape this inferno, to walk through the cleansing fires and come out a different man, a child who had yet to damn himself. He wished his life could somehow be undone, not because he longed for the chance to live through it as a moral man, but because he had been weak. He had built his entire future on other men, always the loyal serf hoping to take his master's place in the end, always the loyal lover expecting to be saved and purified. Now he hated every choice which had brought him here with a passion so strong it made him wish he could crawl away from his own despicable skin.

Again Sir Guy of Gisbourne - although there was no Gisbourne and now there never would be - cast a look at the window, longingly imagining the relief it would be to simply jump and end it all in a split second. Then he gave out a strangled cry of agony, tore himself from the enticing opening in the wall and fled.

----

His hands were slippery with sweat and trembled as he tried to buckle the saddle around the anxious black stallion. The horse was agitated by Guy's unusually shivering touch rather than the commotion of the raging city, but the effect was the same. It trampled nervously as it tried to dodge away from Gisbourne's fingers, tossing the shiny black neck with a snort. Guy gave out a colourful oath and gave the animal a smack across the flank, pulling the saddler hard.

"Stand still you cursed beast," he hissed vehemently and channelled the rage he felt towards his own trembling fingers into chastising the nervous animal. "You behave like an old mare ready for the knacker's yard."

"You'd get better paid from a butcher."

Guy twisted around so fast that the horse jumped to the side and widened its eyes until the black pupil and iris was surrounded by a full, white halo.

"I'm just saying," Allan-A-Dale shrugged and leaned lazily towards the barn wall. "There's quality meat in a strong horse like that. Would feed a family for—wha', it would feed people anyway."

"That is your priority now, is it?" Guy snarled and turned back t the horse, trying to calm it with angry strokes across the muscular neck. "Feeding people?"

"At least I'm on the winning side, mate," Allan grinned. "Mind you, that's more than could be said about you."

Guy grunted out a muzzled insult. "So," he snapped. "You have come here to stop me, have you?"

"Nah, that would be daft, wouldn't it?" Allan snorted. "I just wanted a lie-down. Yeah, I've been running 'round all day so I thought I'd take a nap in the hay, like."

"Sleeping on your job?" Guy scoffed. "You haven't changed much."

"Of course now that I've found you I should tell someone."

Guy flinched and turned round. "You would not dare--"

"I run faster than you," Allan shrugged. "Do you even know 'ow to run? You spend so much time in a saddle, or whatever, your legs will bend over like one of Robin's bows."

"I got a horse," Guy snarled and took a threatening step towards his old henchman.

"That scared lil' pony?" Allan jeered. "Not the best mode of transportation for a hot pursuit if you know what I mean."

Their eyes locked for a moment, Allan defiant and Guy furious and desperate. A few steps and Allan would be done for. A leap and a thrust with the silvery sword. Yet even in desperation Gisbourne knew that his chances were slim at best. The trickster is a slippery character in any story.

Somewhere during the ticking seconds that passed the look in Guy's eyes pushed through Allan's skin and tugged something deep inside. The dark man was cornered, trapped, and he had been brought to this place by his own mistakes. Allan-A-Dale could relate to that, even if no one else of the outlaws would ever be able to see it his way. Thus he sighed and shifted position until he stood with his hands on his hips and his neck slightly tilted back, glancing at the yard, then back at Gisbourne.

"Look," he said. "You can't get out this way. You 'aven't got a chance. Turn around. There's a backdoor to the stable, right? Yeah well, it leads out to this narrow yard between the building n' the castle defences. You can climb over the wall over by the barrels at your right and jump down on the roof on the other side. It belongs to a small inn - bloody shady place mind you, you 'aven't 'eard of it. Run down the alley and you'll end up by the trip's backyard. Easy as shelling peas, mate."

Guy's eyes remained staring at Allan for a while longer, wondering whether to take the advice or give the yard his best shot. Then the horse started tossing his head wildly and decided for him, tearing itself loose and fleeing from the confinement of the stable. As Gisbourne dashed out into the narrow yard, which reeked with urine, and clawed his hands into the crevices in the wall, he silently wondered if shelling pees in fact was easy. In truth, it was not something he had much experience of.

----

Allan remained in the stables, looking at the door where Gisbourne had disappeared as he briefly wondered about loyalties. It wasn't that much different from friendship in the end, and even though you switched side a little something remained, if only just because you had seen the enemy if a different light and knew their way of reasoning. Robin would be furious if he heard about this, but Robin didn't own him. No one owned an A-Dale.

Allan had sensed Djaq's presence even as he finished advising Gisbourne, and now the little Saracen moved cautiously into to stable to stand next to him.

"Why did you help him?" she asked finally, her voice curious rather than accusing.

"Look, they'll get 'im anyway, right?" Allan responded. "Can at least give the poor bloke a head start. People need a chance."

"You are not Guy, Allan." Djaq's hand was planted gingerly on Allan's arm and she squeezed it softly. "You never were."

"I was bloody close," he murmured, and as he met the sympathetic eyes of the small Saracen woman he felt a familiar tug of tenderness. She always read him so well, even when he lied, because she listened to the testament of his eyes rather than his words. He had missed her and Will, the two outlaws he loved the most. Then the moment between the two old friends was broken by a sudden weight on Allan's other side and the soft presence of another body. Griet's arm was sneaked around his almost possessively and she gave Djaq a short, fiery glare before she turned to smile sweetly at Allan. What a lucky man I am, Allan mused rather smugly as his eyes darted from Djaq's cautious touch on his left to Griet's unreserved clasp on his right side. Then Djaq raised her eyebrow sardonically and let a knowing grin slide across her face as she let go of Allan's arm and gave Griet a short nod.

"I must find Will," she stated and promptly turned her back on the couple. There was a tang of jealousy in her chest, but she waved it away. After all, she could not be expected to have every outlaw to herself, she chastised her selfish heart. She had chosen Will long ago, and in this lifetime she would love no one else. It was how she had decided and Djaq's decisions always stood firm. No storm could ever make her waver.

---

"A horse, my kingdom for a bloody horse," Guy murmured as he found his way to The Trip to Jerusalem Inn. He had bruises everywhere and whenever a townsperson crossed his path he had to fend them off or run. They all recognized him, tall and all dressed in black leather which was clammy against his skin.

He darted into another alley, but the sight which met him there made him fall, shocked and terrified, to his knees. His eyes were wide as he titled his head towards the apparition which blocked his way – the revenging angel who had come for him at last – and nearly choked on the surge of emotions.

"For—forgive me," he finally managed to breathe towards her. Her clothes were dirty, a boyish outfit in dark colours, but with the sun behind her there was a halo around her chestnut curls and her blue eyes were as stunning as they had been when she was alive. "Marian," he sobbed to the ghost, "Marian, forgive me – I did not mean – I wished to – I'm sorry." He put his palms to the ground and bowed down further. His crimes had caught up with him and now all that awaited him was an eternity of horror. He sobbed and crawled towards her in the mud. "I loved you," he cried. "I loved you – forgive me. I did not mean to – Marian, spare me! Please, spare me! Forgive me!"

The ghost looked at him mutely then turned, painfully slow, to let him pass. A small smile played on her lips, amused and oddly human for a ghost. She looked so solid. Before she had time to change her mind Guy rose to his feet and moved swiftly past her.

"You better run, Guy," the ghost suddenly called out behind him. "I would not expect Robin to spare you like I have."

Guy turned and stared at her. Did ghosts talk? Did they breathe? Did they get dirty and dishevelled? From this angle the sun was behind him and she had no longer a halo around her pretty face.

"Marian," he stammered. "It can—cannot be - it cannot!"

Before she had time to response there was a man by her side, and Guy recoiled by the mixture of triumph and hatred in Robin's eyes. He put his hand on Marian's shoulder, a shoulder which was solid flesh and not the vengeful apparition that Guy had assumed her to be.

"Because I am having a good day I will give you fair chance, Gisbourne," Robin hissed. "I will count to five before I follow you. When I catch up with you we fight. You better choose a setting where you have a chance, because I will show no more mercy. One."

"Marian?" Gisbourne asked again, stunned to see her alive when she should be dead. Nothing made any sense today! The world was all wrong!

"Two."

"Run, Guy."

"Three."

Before Robin had counted to four, Gisbourne gave Marian a final, longing look, turned his back on them and ran.

---

It was a frail kind of beauty over the grove where the young birch trees formed a poor roof even in the very densest summer vegetation. Most of the black and white trunks were thinner than a woman's calf, the bark silken and the branches hardly more than gnarled twigs against the sky. There were but a few trees over two men tall, and the trunks stood far apart so that the grove was airy and covered in a fine grass and a blanket of white flowers. This early in the summer the little leaves were still a golden kind of green that didn't stop the sun, but rather let it shine right trough them. Thus was the setting of the final battle of Robin Hood, a picture of beauty amidst the terror of war.

Two shapes moved with twitchy movements between the trees, the harsh, sweaty brutality of an exhausted battle forming an odd contrast to the serenity of the grove. They no longer made any swift attacks. Robin didn't move with his usual nimbleness and Guy had lost his posture to the pain, walking hunched like a mangy wolf as he tossed himself between the trees that bent under his weight. They threw themselves at each other, plunged forward with the swords raised in another vain attempt to end this scrap, this duel that had gone on for years between them, then dodged and backed off trying to keep their balance. A mistake was all it took to end this, a wrong move and it would be over. Yet they screamed, not words but the barking and howling of fighting animals, they sweated and fought without giving in, without taking a wrong step. Their muscles hurt but in this moment it was fatal to feel pain, so they blocked it out with adrenaline and recorded the dull aching like a background noise, impossible to escape and thus not worthy their attention.

Robin knew it was his wits that kept him going, his wits and his experience. Even though the sword was heavy in his hand his shrewd mind still noticed every muscle spasm in Guy's body, dodging or lifting his sword in time not because he was swift, but because he knew what was coming in time for his slow limbs to react. It was his willpower that made him lift the sword, even though there was no strength in his arms. It was memories of all the pain and all the anger, all the wrongdoings of the last couple of years, the loss of Marian, the starving peasants, the hanged innocents, the king that had his country stolen from him, Locksley, Nottingham, England, Marian, Marian, Marian. If he lived though this he would see her again, she would steal the frown from his face and kiss back his smile. Whatever happened today this was it. This was the final stand of the hero and his enemy, and they both hated each other too much for Guy to turn his back and run twice that day.

"I have won," came Robin's wheezing voice, thrust out between clenched teeth as if the words could give his sword strength. Guy didn't answer, simply stumbled away from the sword so that the clumsy blade hit a tree with a low thud. It took time to gather strength between the blows - that was the problem. For anyone to win someone would have to do something unexpected, gain strength where there was none. He watched Guy's hunched figure as he manoeuvred his own sword from the trunk. His opponent had backed off again, his hair wet with sweat and plastered against his brow. Guy had a better winter than Robin, food in abundance and a warm bed, yet he was slightly out of form and gasped for breath in the snug leather outfit, which had lost its shine in the battle and seemed a dull gray colour. Robin took a deep breath. His arms wouldn't move but they had to, they had to move now, follow his feet in one powerful leap against his opponent. He was so deep in thought, willing his limbs to move, that he was surprised to find that they had obeyed him. With a crazed howl he threw himself towards Guy, noticing the look of surprise in his opponent's face as Guy lifted his arm to shield himself against the blow. Then Gisbourne's sword-arm snapped like a twig, a ghastly crack of crushed bones, and he tumbled back with a yelp of pure pain. Robin forced himself to regain his balance and half-lifted the blade again. He had expected triumph but he felt nothing but emptiness, to weary to gloat even though Guy lay defeated by his feet.

"I should end you now," he whispered and lifted the blade a little higher, although his arms trembled by the effort.

"Then do it," Guy sneered in response, struggling to rise with his main arm hanging limp and useless. One leg at a time he rose up until he stood unsteady like a newborn kid. "Or are you not man enough, Hood?"

"I don't kill an unarmed man," Robin snorted.

"Well," Guy's laughter sounded hoarse and out of breath. "Lucky for you then that I am not unarmed."

Robin frowned when Guy lifted his weakest arm, the one he would have held a shield in if he had one, and the sun caught a menacing blade curved like an eagle's talon. In bitter recognition Robin saw the dagger be plunged towards him together with the last of Guy's strength, dodging away just in time for the deadly weapon not to slice his throat open. Instead it cut into his shoulder and he lashed out with his own blade in pure reflex, feeling the tip dig deep into Guy's thigh. Gisbourne collapsed down, his leg folding beneath him, and Robin let go of his sword as he staggered back, too weak to tug it out. He slumped down with his back against a young beech tree, wondering how grass could look so soft and yet feel so hard and lumpy. There was blood on the grass, a trail of red stains that seemed macabre in the grove, where two birds had given in to a chirping choir in rivalry over some temporary spouse. It seemed like a better way to settle things, less blood and gore, Robin noted in a weariness that seemed almost drunken, as if the pounding adrenaline lay like a charm upon his soul. He groaned and tried to move his left arm, pressing his palm against the gash in his shoulder and noted that the cloth was warm and damp from blood. Every bruise from the prolonged battle ached now, so many shades of pain that it took all his effort not to scream out loud. Guy was moaning, breathing in through clenched teeth and letting out the air with a dull cry that was so pitiful that Robin felt sorry for him. Thus ended their battles. Robin knew that he had won, even though his opponent breathed still. It was just a matter of time before the king's men caught up with them. Just a matter of time.

Clouds moved slowly over the blue sky as Robin waited, unmoving with his back still against the three and his legs sprawled out in a v-shape in front of him. He had pressed his scarf against the gash in his shoulder and the sharp pain had turned into a dull pounding. Guy lay on his back with the sword sticking out like a banner from his thigh, moaning and sobbing from a pain that was beyond pride. For a moment Robin doused off and thought himself once again trapped in a hospital in the Holy Land, only to wake up disorientated and choking from the sudden pain when his body jolted awake. He gave out a frustrated cry of agony, only to hear a response echo through the trees. His heart gave out a single thud of hope.

"Hello," he cried, and held his breath waiting for an answer. The voice that responded was female, but to his disappointment it didn't belong to Marian.

"Robin!" the voice yelled, not a panicking shriek but a collected call for the outlaw leader.

"Here," Robin groaned, then repeated it a bit louder. "Here!"

----

The woman ran towards the weary agony in the screams, dodged between the trees and used them to swing herself ahead. The world was a blur of white and black, green from the grass and the leaves, blue from the sky, spots of yellow from the first wave of dandelions. Her fingers clenched so tight around the table dagger in her hand that her palm felt sweaty against the shaft. Then she stopped. Hesitated. She watched the sun catch the blade in her hand and wondered why she held it like this, what her intentions were for running with such desperation.

With a deep sigh Melinda Baker slowed down and let the world spin, the emotions coming in waves that left her breathless. She wasn't sure if she ran to help Robin or to exact vengeance, if her loyalties lay with Guy or the scruffy outlaw. Who did she blame in the winter of her sorrow? Robin? Guy? God? She heard the shouting from the battle cease and stopped again, waited to hear the winner. Then an agonized cry of pain cut through the grove and she heard herself answer with Robin's name.

Hello? Hello?

"Robin!"

"Here", the voice responded, and Melinda moved closer. When she came into the glen Robin Hood was helplessly slumped against a tree and their eyes met in mutual recognition.

---

The dagger in Melinda's hand caused a smile to tug Robin's lips, bitterly amused by the thin blade. It was a table dagger. He had been to war, a hero with a sword by his side who had eluded death time and again. Were he to be killed by a woman with a table dagger? It wasn't even a weapon, just a tool for cutting through food. Her hand was pale and slender when she held it, studying her husband's murderer intensely. Then her eyes darted over to Guy's figure, a black lump in the early summer's fragile, green beauty.

"You didn't finish him," she stated. "You could 'ave. Why didn't you?"

Robin shrugged, searching his won mind for the answer. It puzzled him as well.

"But you hate him!" Another statement. Robin nodded in agreement, yet as he did so something finally dawned at him. He didn't hate him. Where the rage had been he could only find a void, the wonderful tranquillity which he had craved for all this years. The warrior inside him was silent. There was no thirst for blood or vengeance, no wish to continue fighting.

"I am sick of hating," he responded faintly. "It drains you."

Melinda studied him in silence for a couple of moments, then put the dagger back into the sheath and patted it once as if to seal it shut.

"A life for a life," she said flatly. "You spared me once, but he," she nodded at Guy, "he's done _you _no favour. I would 'ave killed him. Perhaps that makes me the worse of us."

"My love lived," Robin said with a twang of compassion towards the young widow. "Your grief is rawer."

"She lived?"

"Long story."

"Hm. Well then, I will get you someone," Melinda responded. She didn't truly wish to hear his story, or any story which ended happily ever after for everyone but herself. It was time to leave this place behind. She had relatives elsewhere, and she was strong. She would survive. "I will find Much. Or John. I won't return."

Then Melinda Baker turned her back on the man she hated, knowing now that he did not truly deserve that hate as she had believed once. The winter was over and spring was a time which glorified life. It was time to let go and learn to live again.

**NEXT: We say farewell.**


	32. Epilogue: And the dice rolled

**So, this is it people :) The end of our journey has finally arrived :D Ten months, or closer to eleven, I have written this, more than 150 000 words and over 30 chapters. I've managed to get French, German, Latin and Turkish in there, and now, with the epilogue, even my native tongue Swedish. How about that huh? *lol***

**A HUGE thanx to everyone who had commented and/or read this fic, and an even bigger to my superb beta Jas.**

**gatewatcher: lol, I quite like my own portrayal of Vaysey in that last chapter lol. He had that coming really, he's been bullying Guy constantly and Guy was bound to snap eventually imho. And we all love a happily ever after (actually i only love happily ever after's that don't get too sugary lol)  
Dina: I agree with you that Guy isn't sypathetic, but a lot of people do sympathize with the bloke. I just try to give a fair picture of him, make him human without being all :awww, pooor Guy: lol. He's made his own bed imho, now he has to lie in it and he has to lie in it alone ;)  
Bowandarrow: I'm sorry that there is so little Will.. He's my least favourite charcter to write. :/ Yes, the sheriff is dead. Just like that :D  
.N: lol, no love for Gisbourne, huh? :D Nah, not me either really. His forther destiny, as well as that of the outlaws, somes in this chapter.**

**Thank you all for teh comments, also karol89 who I _think_ I pm:d a response. No, I won't forget to change the story status ;) **

**xxxTrixxx**

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**Epilogue: And the dice rolled**

_-In which we say farewell_

"_För bövelen, karl! Stå inte bara där! Förtöj tampen!_"

The captain of the Swedish trading vessel 'Jungfrun', a man called Tor Torsson, bellowed out his command to his newest recruit so loud that his already pink face turned dangerously scarlet. He had a reddish complexion which didn't take the sun well, but all the years by the sea had made his skin leathery. 'Jungfrun' sailed primarily between the Swedish harbour of Lödöse and the Hansaic cities which were scattered all over the European mainland's northern coast, but lately he had tried to establish connections with England. All in all his English was poor, so he had taken upon him to find an educated Englishman willing to work for him. It had turned out to be challenging. Educated men wanted decent pay and Tor preferred to pay as little as possible. He hadn't believed his luck when this man, all dressed in black wool which reeked of sweat, had approached him. The man knew Latin and had the haughty demeanour of someone of status, but he had been broke end desperate to leave the country. Tor had assumed that his unfortunate position had something to do with the political situation in England, especially considering the—_state_ he was in. John Landless had been dangerously close to seizing the throne while the king was away in the Holy Land, but his plans had been shattered in the great battle of Nottingham. This man had probably been fighting on the wrong side. Of course, since all that occurred, the king had forgiven his brother and was more or less expected to name him his successor. Tor gave out a low, bubbling laughter. Politics! It was no different from neighbours bickering and gossiping outside the church on a Sunday.

He gave the newest recruit another glare and sighed. He still stood dumbly with the rope in his hand and looked pale. The man had been seasick most of the travel but had still kept an impressive amount of dignity between the vomiting. Since the ship had sailed in on the river which led to Lödöse harbour the water had been calm, but the Englishman still seemed miserable.

"Oi, Kaj, do rope or no food for you," Tor screamed in poor English and the man snarled an almost inaudible response before he started to clumsily secure the rope. The captain shook his head and sighed. 'Kaj Svarte', he had named the man. In English his name had been something similar. What was it? Guy – that was it; a strange, foreign-sounding name. 'Kaj' sounded better. It was the Swedish word for harbour and the man was a sailor, was he not? A bad sailor, but one determined to endure. 'Svarte' meant 'the Black', possibly even more suitable, Tor thought and laughed again over his own pun.

On starboard side the town of Lödöse was sprawled out on the green riverside, below the hillside covered in a dense forest where outlaws and wolves roamed. Tor moved up to Kaj Svarte and gave his shoulder a thump while he gestured with his other arm, moving it in a wide arch to point at the town.

"Lödöse," he exclaimed. "Like, yes? _Tycker du om det_?"

The man Kaj Svarte, formerly known as Guy of Gisbourne, grunted. Beggars cannot be choosers, he mused. This was a pathetic, primitive place, but in his new identity as Kaj Svarte he had a chance, however slim, to build himself a minor fortune, or at least some kind of life.

He might have economic security some day, but he would never have a name. The realization stung every time it dawned on him and he recalled how his life had been spared and destroyed in the same, cruel moment, well over three years ago.  
_  
"Robin of Locksley," King Richard smiled and walked up to the man who had been Robin Hood only yesterday. It only took that much – he uttered his name and he was restored. And what about Guy? What about him? Who would he be now? He swallowed hard and stared at Robin's face which was creased with wrinkles of laughter. He beamed, shimmered by Marian's side as he hugged the king of England like a brother with his one, unharmed arm._

_"Lady Marian," the king then squeezed Marian's hand with considerably less warmth than he had greeted Robin. The tension between the three people was tangible even from a distance, but then Guy witnessed, with a pang of envy and jealousy, how the king placed Marian's hand in Robin's. "You have my blessing," he said simply._

_"Thank you, your majesty," Robin and Marian responded simultaneously._

_"You are restored of course. Locksley is yours, as well as Knighton when you wed your bride, and your title - Earl of Huntington."_

_They were all gathered in the Great Hall of Nottingham Castle, and in the triumph from the battle the gathering was bordering on informal. Robin was exhausted and walked with stiff movements, but he was victorious. Yesterday, when the battle was over, the king's men had collected Robin and Guy from the glen. They had not left Guy to rot in the dungeons, but rather locked him in his old quarters while a physician looked over his injuries. This morning his body had still hurt so much that he had been carried to the Great Hall. His arm was useless and he couldn't put any weight on his injured leg._

_Guy watched as the king turned towards two men to the right of Robin, and he recognized Sir Adam and Carter with a rush of fury. They stood side by side, dressed in matching clothes and Adam unshackled. Carter gave Sir Adam a look full of disdain as the beautiful man with the raven curls bowed down to kiss the king's ring._

_"Adam!" King Richard laughed and hugged the man, then Carter after him. "Carter! My dear, loyal subjects. I have instituted a new Knightly order and the two of you, as Locksley of course, will carry the insignia."_

_Guy watched with his jaw dropped as Sir Adam kneeled next to Carter and Robin and gained a medal of honour. That weasel! He had defied the king, tried to murder him, and in return he got praise!?_

_"No!" Guy heard himself call out. "Adam was with the sheriff! He was with us!"_

_Everyone in the room turned to the shackled nobleman. Disdain glowed from their eyes, all but Carter who shrugged sadly and nodded his agreement. The king frowned._

_"And you," he bellowed, "Formerly Guy of Gisbourne, you have committed high treason. It is my final act of gratitude towards Robin of Locksley that he shall name your punishment." The room cheered, but fell silent as King Richard raised his hand to hush them, and they turned expectantly to Robin instead. For a couple of moments Robin's eyes met Guy's, locked into them with a triumphant smile. Then he turned away._

_"Spare him," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Enough people have died today."_

_Guy felt speechless. He had bowed down his head as if he was expecting the axe to fall upon it any minute, but now it jerked up and gawked at Robin's back. He had turned to Marian who was smiling at him, holding his hand in both hers. It had been for her, Guy realized and felt the fury ripple through his body. Robin Hood. Robin of Locksley. Always the hero, always the gentleman, always loved and adored and admired. Always the better man._

_"Very well," King Richard said sourly. "If that is your decision it will be so. Guy, you will be, albeit it is against my better judgment, released. You will be left with enough coins to leave the country, but you have no home here. Consider yourself outlawed in the country of England and most of France. Wherever I have influence you are a dead man. Furthermore your name dies today. There is no Gisbourne. You will be only Guy," he spat out the name as if it was an insult. "Take an epithet if you like. Guy the Weak of Guy the Black perhaps. I would suggest you spend your damned years wisely – a pilgrimage perhaps."_

_As his verdict fell, all Guy could see was Robin's hand in Marian's, her head against his shoulder, his cheek against her soft curls. He had never envied Robin more than in that moment, but the feeling was a vain one. The outlaw had won and there was nothing he could do about it. He had won! The thief! The villain! By Robin's side King Richard watched Guy closely and a mischievous sparkle lit up his features._

"_One more thing," the king smiled. "It is custom to take a hand if a man has committed severe theft. This law is stated thus to ensure that the thief is unable to pursue and future acts of thievery. You, Guy Black, have also committed crimes with your hand, and in line with the finest English traditions I have decided that the punishment will be a public amputation of your sword hand."_

_The room started to buzz with people discussing the sudden turn of events and Guy felt himself freeze._

"_What?" he exclaimed. "But Sire, Your Highness, how am I supposed to make a living with one hand?!"_

"_It has been done before," the king responded dismissively. "But since you are a weak, pitiful creature, I have decided that you shall have one chance to keep your body intact. If you fall down on your knees in front of Robin of Locksley and his wife to be and beg, then I will grant him a chance to spare your hand." The king smiled and watched Guy with morbid amusement. "Well?" he asked. "What shall it be? Your hand – or your pride?"_

Kaj Svarte's lips pulled into a bitter smile when the memory reached this point and instinctively looked down on his sword hand. There was nothing but an ugly stump left, scarred and useless. Sometimes his nonexistent hand would ache or he would feel an almost insufferable need to scratch it, but there was no flesh there and thus he could find no release. In truth he had many reasons to regret the choice of his pride over his hand during this time, but every time he felt that tang of loss he would recall Robin's grinning face. It made him blush of anger and his resolution was once again as firm as it had been that day. He was done with bowing down to people.

Guy hid the stump of an arm in his pocket, away from people's curious looks, and walked over the gangway until his feet landed on Lödöse harbour. The ground still felt unsteady like the sea beneath his feet, but he turned to grab the cargo which was hauled over the railing and down towards his waiting arms. The people here were all blonde or reddish, tall with blue eyes and a strange, sing-song language. It wasn't truly much colder than in England, but the salty sea breeze felt harsh against his skin.

"Godafton, sjöman," a girl greeted him as she passed by him, and he turned to watch the pale, thin hair which fell in a braid over her back as she moved up to give the captain a kiss on his cheek. His daughter, Guy supposed, then realized as he watched her that this life still had one or two things to offer him. He did not have a name or a fortune, but his body still belonged to him, his life was still his. When the girl turned to trot down to the harbour again he caught her eyes in his and gave her a crooked smile. She blushed, but then her eyes fell on his mutilated arm and they widened in shock. Convicts had their hands cut off, and thus Guy's stump branded him as a thief. The girl turned away from him and walked hurriedly in the other direction.

Women! Never again would he let them rule him with their false innocence and big eyes. Guy snarled at one of his crewmates to get a move on and gained a look full of disdain in return. Then Kaj Svarte hauled up the cargo and felt his muscles work beneath the dark clothes as he continued to carry on with whatever task he was paid for.

---

Sir Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntington and lord of the manor in which he was standing, was a troubled man. From this window he could see the edge of the lush Sherwood Forest: she who had been his life's curse and blessing, home and exile, castle and prison, and on days like this he found himself missing her. He knew for a fact that life as an outlaw had been hard, much harder than he remembered through the mushy fogs of nostalgia, but in a way it had also been simple. There was a task which had to be done. Save the king, oust the sheriff, get his home back, marry Marian, and above all, stay alive. Difficult indeed, but straightforward, and he had always known that he had given all that he could for his beliefs. There was a comfort in that. He had been Robin Hood and he had never turned his back on any problem, however small. Since he got his life back he had always felt just a tiny bit of bad conscience, constantly nagging him. The world was not perfect. There were still injustices, and he always felt like he just didn't _do_ quite enough. Now the latest news from London had reached his corner of the world and he did not like them at all.

Robin let his shoulders slump with a sigh and leaned his weight on the windowsill. That bloody king!

"What weighs you down, my love?" The door to the room had been opened and Robin could hear Marian's steps, heavy and rocking, moving her across the floor. His mouth tugged into a smile when he felt her weight against his back and her hands were sneaked possessively around his waist. They almost didn't reach, Robin noted, and lifted them to his mouth to plant a ginger kiss on her palm as he turned around. Then he looked down to her round belly where their first child still waited for the world to welcome him, or her, into the sunlight.

This was the only woman Robin had ever loved more than his Lady Sherwood, more than the king and England, more than life. Marian was a bit flustered from the sun and her eyes were clear but tired. Robin's heart still leaped when he saw her, his fingers still begged him to comb through the wild strands of chestnut hair, his stomach still tingled.

"You should rest," he chastised his pregnant wife lightly, and moved his hands from her shoulders, tracing them along her shape until they rested on her belly where her navel had popped like a cork. He stood silent for a while, watching the cloth drape around Marian's stomach as he waited impatiently for the sensation of his child moving under his touch.

"_He _never rests," Marian smiled wearily as the child kicked and Robin beamed with joy. Then she turned serious again. "Tell me what is wrong, Robin."

Robin sighed and removed his hands.

"The king," he murmured.

"Oh," Marian sighed. "Well, we both suspected something like this. He was very lenient towards his brother from the start."

"Yes, but to name him his successor!"

"He has no child of his own, Robin. John Landless is—family." She smiled and took his hand in hers. "Family is important."

"I suppose," Robin smiled, his anxiety melting away by her tenderness. "At least the sheriff and Guy is out of the picture. Forever."

"Forever," Marian agreed and leaned toward him to plant a shallow kiss on his lips. "And we did the best we could."

Lord and Lady Locksley stood entwined in an embrace when a cautious cough caused them to turn around. In the door the Sheriff of Nottingham stood hesitantly and wondered whether he should move further into the room or leave.

"Much," Robin exclaimed with a smile. "Well, do not just stand there. Come in!"

"I am not—interfering anything?" Much asked. He had a rather gaudy taste in clothing and was dressed is some rosy brocade-pattern which matched his new status as a sheriff and Lord of Bonchurch, but hardly his awkward mannerisms. He still behaved like he was a servant, meek and subdued.

"You are in greater danger of interfering when you sneak up on people than you would if you just stormed in," Robin pointed out.

"Oh, Much," Marian added. "You know that you could never interfere."

"Well, you could, but you aren't," Robin clarified. He didn't want to have Much walking in and out of the home he shared with his wife at any odd hours, and he feared the Marian's hospitality might make Much feel a little bit too welcome.

"Fine then," Much smiled and walked into the room. Then he sat down in a big armchair with a miserable sigh.

"What is wrong?" Robin asked, silently adding 'this time' to himself.

"Oh nothing, it's just," Much sighed again, "I had to do another one of those _retractions_."

Robin tried not to roll his eyes. Ever since Much became sheriff he had found it hard to stick to the law. Occasionally he would follow his heart instead and free people who should be punished, causing people to complain to higher authorities.

"What was it this time?" Robin asked. "A child stealing bread? A widow killing a burglar?"

"Widow," Much sighed. "Such a young widow too! It didn't do anyone any good to hang her. Marian, what did Edward do when he wanted to free people and the law wanted to have them—you know—dangling?"

"He'd give them the lightest punishment possible," Marian responded. "The law has to be obeyed. He would probably have given them the option of a combination of pilgrimage and working off the debt to the law. He was very fair-minded, he wouldn't have released anyone who committed a crime."

"You cannot keep this up, Much," Robin pointed out. "If you keep freeing people who should be convicted and then have to do a retraction of that sentence than no one will take you serious!"

"I know!" Much exclaimed. "It is just—hard—that is all. I mean, how am I supposed to be an upholder of the law when I have been a criminal myself? I always side with all the wrong people. You know, even Allan stared to grow on me in the end." Much sighed again. "Talking about Allan, this came for you," he continued as he stood up and gave a letter to Robin. "It's from him and Griet I suppose. Now, where are Will and Djaq?"

"The stables with John," Robin murmured and looked at the letter in his hand. It had come all the way from France so it was slightly battered. "This is addressed to you," he said and handed it to Marian.

"You want me to read it for you?" Marian asked.

"No, spare me the details. Just tell me how much money they want this time."

"Well, I don't want to hear this," Much stated. "I'll be in the stables."

When Much had left Marian shook her head and sat down in the chair.

"We need to get him a wife," she murmured.

"None of our business, Marian," Robin said with a small smile.

"Well, perhaps it should be. He is our friend. Perhaps I should try to fins that Eve girl he talks about sometimes?" she added pensively.

"You would have to wait until a horse can carry you," Robin responded with a mischievous grin and nodded at Marian's clumsy body. She glared at him, then opened the letter and focused her attention on that instead. She hated being this immobile!

Griet's handwriting was sloppy and difficult to read, but Marian was used to it and quickly skimmed through the initial well-wishes and polite greetings aimed at any number of random people.

"Well?" Robin asked and cocked his eyebrow. "How much and why?"

"It seems they are cursing the world with another A-Dale," Marian responded and was met by a low moan from Robin.

"She is pregnant again?!" he exclaimed. Allan and Griet's first child had been born nearly three months after their marriage and this would be their third. Allan's comment on the first one had been that A-Dale children were unpredictable – you never knew quite when they decided to drop in, and that was especially true for the firstborns. They were usually very eager, he had explained proudly, as if that was a virtue in the child rather than a flaw in the parents. "How could this woman claim to be my sister? And why in earth did I officially acknowledge her claim!?" Robin asked his wife miserably. Griet had told Robin the story of her mother's stay in Nottingham and affair with his father, although she had chosen to neglect the part of the story which involved all the other possible fathers who were scattered all over England. "She is so much like Allan," Robin growled.

"She is," Marian smiled in agreement. When there was a distance between her and the roguish couple she found them rather endearing, like clumsy puppies causing havoc wherever they went, but she chose not to say that to Robin.

"How much?" Robin asked again.

"She doesn't say," Marian murmured then gave out a little yelp. "Aw!" she called out.

"What?" Robin said with a suspicious glance at his wife.

"She's naming the child after me if it's a girl."

Robin rolled his eyes. "They said they were naming the first one after me," he pointed out.

"They did name him after you!"

"He is called Tom!"

"Tom Robin," Marian clarified. "Tom was Allan's brother. It makes sense that they would call the firstborn child that. They probably just forgot the promise."

"Well then, let us hope for your sake that Allan didn't have any sisters," Robin responded sourly, causing Marian to roll her eyes.

"Well, we are godparents again, so we must send them something anyway," she finished and folded the letter. "At least they don't want money to bail Allan out of prison again. You should be glad that they are doing so well."

"I am glad," Robin smiled. "I just wish he wasn't so much like Allan sometimes. Actually that goes for both of them."

There was a knock on the door and Little John entered the room. It had been uncomfortable for Robin at first that his old friend now worked for him, taking over Thornton's old job, but John had insisted. Alice and Little-Little John lived with the bowmaker and there wasn't room for another person in their household. They had all moved back to Locksley, and it amazed Robin how John could stand seeing his wife move on without him. At least he had his son close by, Robin mused. The child was often on the manor, limping after his father with a bow in his hand as he watched how the big man took care of the house. John had a talent for organizing people and making firm decisions based on careful observations, as well as listening to those who had the right knowledge without being too proud to admit that he could be wrong. It made him an excellent steward.

"It's ready," he grunted, and Robin nodded. Marian rose from the chair with considerable effort and Robin gave her a worried look.

"Are you sure you want to come?" he asked.

"It's only a short walk to the stables, then we take the cart. I wish to say farewell as well."

"You could say farewell here."

"I could, but I won't," Marian stated stubbornly and Robin reached out his arm for her to lean on. There was no point reasoning with her when she had her mind set on something, and she wanted to say get goodbye with the rest of them.

---

Will and Djaq had tried to make it work in England, but Djaq grew restless and then the affair with the villagers had started. Most of them accepted her, but there were some—well, there were always _some_. 'Saracen scum', they called her at first, then 'witchdoctor' when she started to use her abilities as a healer. The couple had despaired at first, wondering if their love would be doomed wherever they went, but it had been different this time. Here they stood together, stronger than before. They would have endured if it hadn't been for the fever. Four people had passed away last winter, and someone had decided that they should blame it all on Djaq. She was a curse, they decided, and even though most people didn't fully agree, they all considered it a_ possibility_. They grew wary around her, and people who used to walk up and talk to her took detours around their house. It had been too much to carry.

Oddly enough it had been Luke who suggested Jerusalem. In Jerusalem there was a community, however small, of Englishmen, and a considerably larger one of Saracens. Jerusalem, the golden city, holy for four different religions and cursed for the very same reason. It had to be Jerusalem. The thought of the journey gave them hope again, and this time Luke would follow.

Little John, Much, Robin and Marian followed in the carriage as had been planned, until they reached the crossroads and halted. It was a perfect place to say farewell. You could see the western road which disappeared in the horizon, waiting to carry Djaq, Will and Luke towards the Promised Land, and Sherwood framed the spot in the other directions. The travellers dismounted from their horses as their friends came out from the cart to wish them good riddance. Compared to the farewell that took place when Allan and Griet left for France, which had been rather straightforward, this was a maudlin affair which left Djaq feeling rather uncomfortable. When the farewell was over, the rulers of Bonchurch, Locksley and Knighton, as well as Little John who didn't consider himself master of anything but still held more poise than any of them, stood in companionable silence as the travellers disappeared in the horizon. Will, Djaq and Luke was nothing but tiny dots when Marian gave out something between a yawn and a sigh and her husband held her tighter around her waist to let her lean on him.

"You know, I never was in the Holy Land," she said at last.

"It's all sand," Much shuddered at the torrent of memories which washed over him. "Nothing to see, really."

"Still," she shrugged. "It would have been nice to see it."

"You wish to go there?" Robin asked, but as the words left his mouth a cold wind rustled the treetops and made them all shudder. An uncomfortable silence fell and they wondered why it seemed so dark all of a sudden.

"No," Marian stated, and Robin felt himself heave an irrational sigh of relief. "I don't think I was ever meant to be there. Who knows what would have happened if that coin flipped differently? Perhaps we would not be here now."

Robin nodded and gave his wife a deep, lingering kiss, causing Much to murmur a few well-chosen phrases about privacy versus public places. As if those words were the key for them all to make their exit, they left the crossroads and walked into the carriage again, except John who was the driver and moved to sit in front.

"Come-on," the big man grunted to the two horses and tugged the reins so that they turned towards Sherwood and the road to Locksley. "Take us home, lads," he continued talking to the animals in a low murmur. The horizon was pale blue and the shadows short under the midday sun, flies hummed and the wind rustled the trees which had been his home for so many years. Once upon a time he had considered himself a dead man, but now there was so much life all around him. Then he remembered Robin's words, spoken every time they went from one phase of their lives into another, and smiled warmly at the memory. "Home," he murmured to no one in particular or the world in general. "We are going home."

_~*~ The End ~*~_


End file.
